I'm Sure You'll Contract My Disease
by siriusblackatemybaby
Summary: Set in Year 6. Funny how when you find your most hated student on the ground, grinning like a maniac and bleeding all over the place, you suddenly begin to like him. A Snape and Harry bonding fic.
1. Big Death Eater

Chapter One  
  
I'll be the first to admit that I, Severus Snape, am a heartless, cold- blooded, conniving, cynical, hateful bastard.  
  
Look at me, big Death Eater with billowing, black robes, pacing threateningly in front of my fearful students. Their rapt attention brings a sneer to my thin, white lips. My tongue is begging for escape and I can taste the condescending remarks far before I actually speak them.  
  
Look at me, big Death Eater with billowing, black robes, clutching my left forearm in tear-jerking pain, as His mark burns black on my pale skin. He'll expect me to apparate to his side, my face masked. He'll want my thin, white lips to kiss the hem of his robes. I'll wash my mouth out later with some heavy-duty spearmint Muggle mouthwash. No one dares to say it aloud, but The Dark Lord tastes of dirt.  
  
Look at me, big Death Eater with billowing, black robes, falling into an old man's embrace because tonight was too much and the pain is getting to me. It's coursing throughout my body, through my veins, into my bloodstream, and oh, the horror, my heart is hurting. The tears have matted my eyelashes to my face, my throat is choking on a sob. My thin, white lips are chapped and bleeding, and the headmaster dabs at them with the tissue he has used to wipe my eyes.  
  
Look at me, sallow-skinned Slytherin boy, with nothing more to show for life than greasy hair and scarred wrists.  
  
"Severus."  
  
Albus's voice is quiet and gentle as he runs a soothing hand through my hair. His nail runs across my scalp, causing a tingle that runs through my body, and overriding the punishment of my other master. I close my eyes, not wanting to fight the fatigue I felt, but managed to murmur in reply, "Yes, Albus?"  
  
"I do not want you returning to him."  
  
Silly Albus. He knows I must return. The Dark Lord does not tolerate quitting. If you quit the Dark Lord, you quit life. It should be the Death Eater motto.  
  
"Naughty children must be punished, Albus," I whisper wryly. "I am a naughty child and therefore, I must accept the consequences of my actions."  
  
The old man doesn't say anything for a while. I knew his train of thought. He most likely started back at my years as a student, when I first walked into the Great Hall. Everyone was chattering excitedly, except for me. They only talked to me to ask about the heavy purple bruise beneath my eye. Of course, Father had to make his mark before I headed off. Father always had to make his mark.  
  
Father is still making his mark.  
  
"Severus, you do not deserve punishment." Albus said softly, rubbing my back with a gentle, aged hand. The man did know how to comfort, I had to grant him that.  
  
"I've done terrible things." I mumbled.  
  
You can't start your adult life as a Death Eater and not do terrible things. That would be blasphemy. I constantly wonder why I had chosen this path, as all I achieved was getting a mark burned into my skin and kissing someone who tasted like they had just rolled around in a pile of dog feces.  
  
Hmm . . . dog. Maybe I had wanted to kill Black.  
  
Funny how it still sounds appealing, despite Black already being dead.  
  
"You've made up for the terrible things, Severus. You've been a devout server for the Light, my dear boy, and no one could ask more from you." His words were kind, as was his tone. The headmaster is a kind man.  
  
Sometimes he made me furious.  
  
"What I've done is unforgivable," I snapped. My eyes are starting to burn from unshed tears. I really do not want to start crying like a lowly first year Hufflepuff again.  
  
"You will not return to him," Albus started firmly. "I will not allow you to."  
  
I stared at him, gaping like fish.  
  
"I am not a child, Albus. I'll do as I see fit."  
  
"No, Severus," the headmaster said gravely. "You will do as I see fit. If you continue spying, you will die and I will be left with one less professor, one less student, and one less child. Under no circumstances are you to return to Voldemort."  
  
I growled. He had no right to treat me this way.  
  
"And if I do?" I asked defiantly.  
  
What would the old man do? Spank me and send me to bed early?  
  
He looked at me with that incorrigible twinkle in his ocean eyes. "Perhaps."  
  
Bloody Hell. The man really could read minds.  
  
"Can you-?"  
  
"It was a guess."  
  
"Oh."  
  
'Go to bed, Severus. I'll find someone to take over your classes tomorrow. You need rest."  
  
***  
  
When I awoke the next morning, I found my body in sufficiently less pain than the previous night. Albus had ordered house elves to bring me brunch around 11 o'clock. I groaned in satisfaction at the smell of the eggs, bacon, toast, puddings, and fruit before tucking in. Once again, the old man knew how to comfort. Breakfast in bed, indeed. I could get used to this. Maybe I should take a few more late night Death Eater excursions, ending with me writhing around on the ground in the torturous pain of the Cruciatus curse.  
  
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Sometimes I found the Dark Lord to be very humorous with punishments. How he would torture one of his entourage for the slightest thing; like say, tripping on a tree root.  
  
One of us would fall, and then another couple of us would go down along with him, as illustrated in that insipid Muggle game, Dominos.  
  
The Dark Lord would turn around to glare with his oh so evil red eyes, look for the instigator of the chain, and say something simply amazing and profound like, "Only Muggle-lovers trip over tree roots. Crucio."  
  
The painful screams would light up the night like Christmas decorations and the rest would laugh as if drunk on eggnog. The Dark Lord, in turn, would look incredibly pleased with himself as if he had just made an extraordinarily clever joke at a comedy club.  
  
"Is Professor Snape alright, sir?"  
  
I wiped the malicious grin off of my face and looked down at the house elf. "Yes, Professor Snape is fine," I replied.  
  
"Can I get you anything, sir?"  
  
"Um, no. That's all right. If you could just get rid of these . . . " I gestured to the empty plates, which vanished immediately. "Thanks." The house elf disappeared. I leaned back into my pillows and closed my eyes, humming theme to the delightful Muggle story, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas .  
  
You're an evil one, Mr. Snape.  
  
Oh, how I tried to be condescending. How I longed to be heartless! To be unfeeling would be the greatest gift for anyone to bestow upon me. All I felt was guilt, rage, and longing. I often pine for companionship, for love, for things that I don't feel. So I suppose I want to rid myself of desire and emotion. I suppose I want to become an empty shell. I don't even want hate to rule my life, for then I would be The Dark Lord. For then I would smell of fecal matter and make poor, lost souls kiss the hems of my dirty robes.  
  
Speaking of, I smell awful.  
  
I swung my legs off of my bed and retreated to bathroom for a much-needed shower. I even washed my hair this time, a rare occurrence for me. Merlin knows I hate to walk around with clean hair. My reputation is at stake.  
  
After getting dressed, I decided that it was time to step out of my rooms. Perhaps have tea with Albus. He liked it when I popped in for tea unannounced. I'm not quite sure why. If I were he, I'd suspend myself from the ceiling by my pinkies. I suppose that Albus does not see me as an insufferable brat, as I see my students.  
  
Students are ridiculous things.  
  
I could actually hear one crying now, as I passed one of the boy's bathrooms. A wave of concern passed through me and I tried to squash it, but the bugger just would not leave me alone. I grunted, exasperated with myself, pasted the trademark Snape sneer on my face, and walked in.  
  
Of course, it was him. Harry Bloody Potter. The Boy Who Fucking Lived. Who else would it be? He hadn't noticed I was there yet, as he was curled in a tight ball in a corner next to the far stall. A shallow pool of blood surrounded him. Looking closer, I noticed his pale, exposed right arm, sliced with a ribbon of red. Then I noticed the sharp dagger he held in his left hand, which was shaking uncontrollably. Blimey, it took me a long time to notice things.  
  
"Mr. Potter," I said softly, kneeling next to the boy. "What have you done to yourself?"  
  
He looked at me, then. Those frightened, emerald eyes were filled with regret, resentment, and guilt. He took in a ragged breath, before shaking his head and dropping the dagger to the ground. It fell with a resounding clatter.  
  
"I can't do this anymore, Professor." His voice shook, but his tone was calm.  
  
"Do what, Potter?" I asked, keeping the bite out of my own voice.  
  
"Live," he replied simply. "I cannot live. I cannot save them. I cannot kill him." He picked the dagger back up, and trailed it through the blood on the bathroom tile.  
  
"But you must-"  
  
"No, I did not ask for this," Potter interrupted me. "I did not ask for my parents to die, or to be raised as a Muggle slave. I did not ask for my fame. I did not ask for your ridicule. I did not ask to defeat him in the first place and I did not ask to be my godfather's cause of death. I did not ask to end lives in the act of saving them." He drew in a breath and looked at me searchingly. He was no longer afraid to meet my gaze. When I said nothing, he continued. "Professor, I do not have asthma, but it is hard to breathe. Every night, I pray for my lungs to collapse so I won't have to see sunrise the next morning. Every sunset I hope will be my last one." He looked pointedly at his mutilated arm. "This will not kill me, Professor. I will live to see tomorrow."  
  
I bit my lip. The boy had never acted like this before. I never even realized he had a brain.  
  
"What class should you be in right now?" I asked, still unable to lash out at the boy.  
  
He smiled wanly at me, his eyes twinkling somewhat in amusement. "Yours, Professor." He looked back to his dagger, sighed contentedly, and raised it to slice his arm again. Before it managed to touch his flesh, I snatched it away. He looked at me in surprise, before smirking. "But, Professor, don't you want me to die?"  
  
What was he on? Had he taken some sort of potion? He was much too calm. He sounded as if he felt nothing, but he looked as if he had just been run over by the Hogwarts Express.  
  
"No, Potter. You can't do this to yourself," I replied. "It's not helping you. You can't kill yourself."  
  
"Why not?" he asked. "Who cares?" I opened my mouth to respond, but he quickly cut me off. "I don't want to hear the fate of the wizarding world, Professor. I want to know who cares about me, not The Boy Who Never Died."  
  
"Lupin," I said automatically.  
  
"Lupin does not care about Harry," the boy returned harshly. "Lupin cares about James's son." He sighed deeply, leaning his raven head against the cold wall. "Strike one, Professor. Try again."  
  
"Granger and Weasely," I snapped, annoyed by his tone.  
  
"Ah, yes," he threw me a lopsided smile. "Hermione and Ron do care. But the joy of having a trio, Professor, is that when one leaves, there's still two left. Their friendship will grow stronger when I'm gone. We'll call that strike two. Have another go."  
  
I stared at him and he studied me curiously. When I was unable to come up with a third party, he gave me a winning smile and lifted his hand to touch my clean hair. "What about you, Professor?" he asked, his voice wistful. "Do you care about me?"  
  
I raised an eyebrow at him. That was the last thing I had suspected him to ask. My feelings about Harry Potter, were indeed, mixed. I hated his father, although his mother was one of my closer friends. I sympathized with boy, though I raged at him as well. He was lonely, I could sense that, but he was also the golden boy. His peers and the press ridiculed him constantly. He had scars on his wrist that outweighed even the scar on his forehead. And those green eyes.those green eyes shown so vacantly.  
  
I pulled up the sleeve of my robe to show him my own arm, heavily scarred from my teenaged years. He smiled again, looking down at my pale arm, and taking a shaky finger to gently trace the old lines. When he looked back up at me, his eyes burned red with unshed tears.  
  
"Will you take care of me?" he whispered, his voice as small as child's.  
  
I lifted my hand and brought it down gently upon his head, as Albus had done for me the night before. His hair was soft and boyish and as I stroked it with my long, white fingers he closed his eyes, and released another ragged breath.  
  
"I will take care of you," I agreed quietly.  
  
He opened his eyes again, searching for a lie. When he found that I was serious, he said, "And I will take care of you, too."  
  
I scooped him into my arms, leaving the dagger and the blood on the floor. Without another word, I took him to the hospital wing.  
  
"I'll save you before I go, Professor Snape," he whispered in my ear before Poppy shoved me out of the room. The hallway was deserted and I stood alone, feeling very small in my billowing, black robes. 


	2. The Heinous Grasp Of Empathy

Chapter Two  
  
The 5th year Creevy brother was straying in the hallways as I made my way to Dumbledore's office. He looked positively terrified as I wordlessly swept up to him, and towered overhead, fiercely intimidating and valiant (if I do say so myself).  
  
I was in the mood to torment. I had just displayed enough compassion to suit me for the next ten years.  
  
"And what, Mr. Creevy, are you doing out of class?" I asked chillingly.  
  
The words tasted good on my tongue. The seventy five percent of my conscience that remained malicious cheered and chimed mugs of butterbeer together, chanting, "All hail, Severus!"  
  
In my mind, I'm the king. I have the feeling that this psychological disorder came from the neglect I sheltered throughout school, but I really don't care now. At least I think I'm great.  
  
"P-Professor McGonagall, sir," Creevy spluttered. "S-she sent me to run an errand."  
  
I sneered. "Did you complete this so-called errand, Creevy?" The boy nodded his head vigorously. "Ten points from Gryffindor for your needless loitering."  
  
"B-but-"  
  
"Five more points from Gryffindor for your inane stammer. Now go back to class before I lose my temper."  
  
The boy turned around and walked away at a fast pace. Blast, he knew I'd deduct even more points if he ran. Oh well, Gryffindors are a ridiculous lot; I'll be able to take off more points within the next hour, I'm sure.  
  
I was relieved when I finally reached the headmaster's office without anymore crying, insane Harry Potters who tugged at my heartstrings and nagged my evil intent. Although, another Creevy incident would be tolerable, as Creevy was small and in comparison, I was very, very big.  
  
"Albus," I said, sinking into a chair without invitation. "Lets have tea."  
  
Albus looked at me from his desk, a half smile on his face and his eyes twinkling in amusement. For some reason, I always managed to amuse the old fool. It was odd considering everyone else thought me to be the least humorous person to ever grace this earth.  
  
"Poppy has already informed me about the incident with Harry Potter-"  
  
"I did not come to discuss Harry Potter," I cut him off. "I came for tea." His eyes hardened. I have learned over the years that when Albus Dumbledore's face becomes completely serious, then you have made an error in judgement. Thus I attempted to look apologetic while saying, "Sorry. I meant, may we please have tea?"  
  
He sighed, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, shook his head, and waved his hand. Sandwiches, a teapot, and teacups appeared before us on his desk and I smiled gratefully, grabbing one of the sandwich triangles like a greedy child.  
  
"Severus," he said slowly, watching me munch on my sandwich. "I do have something important to discuss with you . . . involving Harry."  
  
Of course, what else could I expect? Knowing it was inevitable, I waved my hand for him to continue, maintaining a look of sheer boredom on my face.  
  
"Poppy has told me that she suspects the wounds were self-inflicted. Is this true?"  
  
I rolled my eyes, swallowing the last bite of my sandwich. "Yes, Albus."  
  
"I want you to recount everything that happened, Severus. This is very serious."  
  
Where do I begin?  
  
"Well, I heard him crying from the hallways." I said. "I walked into the bathroom and there he was, sitting in a pool of his own blood, his arm mutilated and a dagger in his hand."  
  
Albus nodded. "What did he have to say?"  
  
"He said he didn't want to live anymore." I smirked. "At least now he understand my position . . . "  
  
I pride myself in being a strong liar.  
  
"Severus . . . " Albus warned. "This is extremely serious. I'm afraid I'm going to have to take drastic measures."  
  
Of course Albus would have to take drastic measures! The golden boy was involved. Every measure taken in the wake of the golden boy was a drastic measure.  
  
I stuffed more sandwich into my mouth before asking, "What're you going to do?"  
  
"Child, do not speak with your mouth full," Albus scolded, looking thoroughly amused. He then sighed, his face once again hardening. "I can't trust a suicidal student alone. I'm going to have to have him reside with one of the staff members until he's mentally healed."  
  
I stopped chewing, remembering the vacant green eyes that had looked at me so pleadingly. I could feel the soft boyish, hair between my spindly fingers and the pads of his fingertips that brushed over my scarred arms.  
  
"Who are you entrusting your golden boy to, Albus?" I sneered, trying my best to fill my voice with disdain.  
  
"Minerva, most likely, as she's his head of house," Albus replied.  
  
The tears that he didn't cry, and his small voice asking me to take care of him. The same voice promising to take care of me. His warm weight, light from malnutrition, as I carried him up to the hospital wing. His heavy breathing on my cheek.  
  
"I suppose that would be best . . . " I mumbled.  
  
His hand running through my clean hair, asking if I cared for him.  
  
"Severus, my boy, you look troubled," Albus remarked. "What ever is the matter?"  
  
The mangled arm. The blood pooling around his small body.  
  
"Severus? Are you alright?"  
  
His smile. His shaking left arm, slipping the dagger through the blood on the floor.  
  
"Severus, come back."  
  
((I'll take care of you))  
  
"I want him," I whispered.  
  
"Sorry?" Albus asked, looking particularly delighted.  
  
"I want to take care of Potter."  
  
"Excellent."  
  
I knew that Albus had wanted this, even expected it. Now I was entrusted with the care of Harry Bloody Potter, the Boy Who Fucking Lived. My most hated student . . . and yet, there was this sinking feeling when I thought about him, alone in the bathroom, his childish voice whispering about the abuse of existence. The first fall of the dagger to the floor, and the unsatisfying sound it made that reverberated against the walls and throughout the room. His maniacal grin, that only managed to show how tired he was.  
  
I rolled up my sleeve to touch my scars.  
  
Tired. Tired of life.  
  
"It doesn't hurt, Albus," I said, feeling the constriction of my throat.  
  
"What doesn't hurt, Child?"  
  
Nothing hurts. The Dark Lord of Fecal Matter could summon me at this very moment, burn his dark mark black on my forearm and I would say that it was painless. Hurt was an abused word. The only thing that truly hurts is life itself.  
  
Or maybe Harry Potter and I just cancel eachother out. Either way, it doesn't hurt.  
  
"Severus, are you alright?"  
  
I couldn't give this man I considered to be the only parental figure I had, the satisfaction of thinking I was having another turn around. I just couldn't.  
  
"No, Albus," I replied, snapping my head up to meet his gaze. "I'm not. There's a bad taste in my mouth."  
  
"From what, Severus?"  
  
"The Dark Lord. He tastes like shit." I rose, throwing a half-eaten sandwich down on the platter. "I have to go find more Gryffindors to take points from. I'm in an awful mood."  
  
With that, I swept out of his office. The hallways were once again, abandoned, and I was, as I always will be, utterly alone.  
  
* * *  
  
Five minutes passed before I crumbled in an appalling heap of sentimentality and made my way for the hospital wing. If I could be two people, I'm sure one of me would be sneering at the other. Actually I think I'm having multiple-personalities tendencies, for I am experiencing this unrelenting urge to insult myself.  
  
Poppy was incorrigible, as always. She demanded to know what business I had to be near her sickly patients and when I replied, she told me, "No, you can't see the Potter boy. He's asleep, anyway."  
  
I shrugged my shoulders, as I was also incorrigible, and walked past her to Potter's bed. His eyes were closed, his breathing was deep.  
  
"He's crying," I hissed to Poppy, as small tears strayed down the boy's face.  
  
"He has bad dreams," the medi-witch replied, as if speaking to a small child. "It's very common for him to have nightmares." Apparently realizing that I was harmless, she left my side to tend to her other patients.  
  
I sighed, stepping closer to Potter. He was tightly grasping the white sheets in his hand, quietly sobbing now.  
  
"I don't want to be alone."  
  
Merlin, the boy could rip a man's heart out in his sleep. I gently pried his hand open and rested mine in his palm. He squeezed. I squeezed back.  
  
"Professor Snape?" he mumbled. His eyes were still closed.  
  
"Yes, Potter, it's me," I managed to say, though a knot was forming in my throat.  
  
The boy didn't say anything else, just continued holding my hand with his eyes tightly shut and tears still streaming down his cheeks.  
  
"What was that dream about, Potter?" I finally asked.  
  
He smiled through his tears, opened his mother's eyes and probed my soul.  
  
"You, Professor." 


	3. Pearls from Jewels

Chapter Three  
  
***  
  
"Me?" I asked as Harry Bloody Potter applied more tender pressure to my hand.  
  
He nodded. "Yes, Professor."  
  
"What was I doing?"  
  
My perfect little world of bitterness and cynicism was spinning out of control. Harry Potter was holding my hand, telling me he had just dreamt of me, his bright eyes still bleary from crying; his untidy raven head set comfortably against the hospital pillow. I stood next to him, not pulling away from his touch because as much as I loathe admitting it, the boy had intrigued me. His sudden desire to relate to his "greasy git of a potions professor" was fascinating.  
  
"Crying," he said simply.  
  
"You and I were crying together?" I asked, confused.  
  
He shook his head. "I wasn't there."  
  
It took a few moments for his meaning to sink in. The boy had been me in his dream. I had been crying. I hadn't wanted to be alone. That's when I decided that there must have been some kind of dark magic involved. The boy knew me much too well.  
  
I stared at him incredulously, reaching my free hand down to brush his hair from his eyes.  
  
"You were my age," he said softly, raising his hand to touch my arm again. "You were just like me."  
  
Only I wasn't an idiot Gryffindor . . .  
  
"You were with Professor Dumbledore," he continued. "My father and Sirius had just done something cruel to you. I don't know what it was, but it was really bad. You were so upset. You just kept crying and crying and crying . . . you didn't want to be alone anymore, Professor. Everyone just left you all alone, and you couldn't take it anymore."  
  
He lifted the sleeve of my robe and touched the closest scar.  
  
"This was a fresh wound," he said. "You had cut it with a dull razor in the prefects bathroom, even though you weren't a prefect." He paused. "The headmaster just watched when you started to wreck things."  
  
I remembered perfectly well. McGonagall had caught me in the act and dumped me in Albus's office, where I broke down, broke apart, broke almost everything in the room.  
  
"How do you dream the memories of others?" I asked.  
  
Harry smiled tiredly at me. "I don't know," he replied. He took a few minutes of silence to breathe deeply. "Maybe I'm just a Severus Snape rerun."  
  
He closed his eyes as I whispered, "Don't say that."  
  
He chuckled. "What made you not do it?"  
  
"Not do what?"  
  
"End your life."  
  
I inhaled sharply. That was a very personal, very difficult question to answer. Why doesn't one kill oneself? A few things must be factored into this response. The first is pride.  
  
Had I killed myself at the age of sixteen years, two months, three weeks, and five days (the precise day on which I had planned to escape this dreadful thing we call "life"), I would have given every person to ever abuse me an amazing sense of satisfaction. By terminating myself, I would only strengthen them. In a sense, I suppose we all exist out of petty spite. I told Potter this.  
  
"What's the second thing?" he prompted.  
  
The second thing, and this is indeed vital, is motivation. I had motivation to live. New opportunities were arriving everyday, and the quicker I answered the door, the more reason there was for me to remain within the world. The opportunity to show my talent, to seek revenge, to kill, and to save.  
  
"Voldemort," the boy said quietly, his tone trying so desperately hard to not sound judgmental, but the slow rise of disgust was seeping through.  
  
"Indeed," I nodded, glancing down at my hands. I could still taste those vile robes on my lips . . . As I looked at the sixteen-year-old, bloodied armed and tired-eyed, but otherwise squeaky clean, I felt, well . . . this unfathomable filth tainting my skin. Terrible things, I had told Dumbledore. I had done terrible things. I had killed, I had aided in murder. So I decay with my victims corpses day in and day out, allowing the insects to tread on me and feast, to take my mind and inch my memories closer and closer to the brink of the present until the only rest I had was the tender caress of insanity.  
  
And this boy, this boy who lay in front of me, with eyes blackened from fatigue and arms scarred by his own hand, had done absolutely nothing wrong. Everyday, he was undoing everything I had done. Righting my wrongs. Saving my victims. The worst part of it, and this is as bad as life gets, is that he had nothing to show for it (nothing at all) but a broken heart.  
  
"And the third?" he asked, squeezing my hand.  
  
"The will to live," I said, meeting his emerald gaze. I settled down on the edge of the bed, and was thoroughly surprised when he rested his head on my lap. "It's embedded into all of us. It's part of our humanity."  
  
"And when you lose it, you lose yourself," Harry whispered. I put my hand through his hair, leaned down, and kissed the top of his untidy, raven head.  
  
"You won't be lost," I breathed. "I won't lose you."  
  
We sat in silence for a few minutes, as I soothingly stroked his hair, and he breathed warmly into my lap. That's when I realized what was happening, not for the first time, but it surely was the most distinctive. I was being protective of Harry Potter.  
  
"You're going to have to get your things out of Gryffindor Tower," I told him. "You'll be staying with me. Headmaster's orders."  
  
He didn't respond to this, but I felt a small nod over my legs, felt his finger tapping my thigh. He finally looked into my eyes, his own once again out of focus and tearing.  
  
"You don't want me," he said. "When you begin to see yourself in my eyes, you'll loathe me far more than you do now."  
  
I sighed deeply, entangling my white finger in a strand of his black hair.  
  
Only time would tell.  
  
***  
  
The boy moved in with me that day, weakly dragging his trunk down to the dungeons and to my chambers. Seeing his blatant struggle, I took the labor of his trunk, and set it down in the second bedroom, which I had (appropriately) decorated for him in various shades of blue. Sadly, I don't believe he caught on to my dark humor.  
  
"Professor?"  
  
He had such a meek voice, with such great power. I felt as if a single word could shatter my skeleton; leave me in puddle of skin and blood on the cold, dungeon floor. Thus was the strength of the broken-hearted.  
  
"Yes, Harry?" I asked.  
  
He stepped towards me tentatively, not stopping until he was close enough to hug me. He had begun to cry again, salty tears like ocean pearls running down his childish cheeks, his eyes as vibrant as the jewels on a betrothed woman's thin, elegant finger.  
  
"I'm not well, am I?" he asked, shifting from foot to foot.  
  
I shook my head, placed a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"No, Harry. You're not well."  
  
"I'm being quarantined from my peers," he mumbled. "I'll miss Ron sleeping in the bed next to me. Will he catch my disease?" He fell to his knees, too weak to stand. He encircled his arms around my leg and clung tightly, as an infant would to its mother.  
  
"You don't have a disease," I replied.  
  
"It is a disease," he snapped, choking a little on a sob. "Not of the body. I am weak, but I will be strong. It's not in the mind, either. It's the disease of life, Professor. The cycle of birth and death, love and abuse. You can't get too much, you can't get too little, and you'll never get just the right amount." He fell over, curled into the fetal position, and sobbed.  
  
The boy was at worst dramatic, at best artistic.  
  
I knelt next to him, ran a hand over his spine, sighed, and picked him up. I carried him all the way to the couch, settled down, and placed him on my lap. Luckily, he didn't know what to think of this. I doubted he had ever sat on someone's lap before. He just stared at me, now unable to cry. His lips were cracked from the constant in and out of air. He sniffled, and I felt his muscles slowly relax. At last, his head lolled to my shoulder, as he adjusted his body to seek comfort in me.  
  
To think, at one time I wished to slit this boy's throat. Fuck the wand-to- the heart routine, just the old-fashioned Muggle way, with an illegal switchblade to the neck. Now I sat, with Harry Potter resting quietly on my legs, my aching hands rubbing soothing circles on his shaking back.  
  
"I feel like taking 100 points from Gryffindor," I murmured.  
  
"Did I do something wrong?" he asked, closing his eyes.  
  
I shook my head.  
  
He had. He had done something terribly wrong, and in this case, there was nothing viler than burglary.  
  
The boy had stolen my heart.  
  
***  
  
^^**Author's Notes Rock Your Planet**^^  
  
Okay, well, this is a sappy piece of shit, but you guys seem to like it, so I'll continue. I'll admit that I like it, too. I apologize for this chapter. It's worse in the sap-factor than the others. Harry's kind of out- of-character, but I'll pin the name to him anyway. Maybe he's just a completely different personality under the influence of grief. **shrugs**. Happens to me. Maybe it would happen to him, too.  
  
It's sad, isn't it? I'm going to aim to make you cry. 


	4. Shadow Ballet

And I sing and sing of awful things  
The pleasure that my sadness brings  
As my fingers press onto the strings  
In yet another clumsy chord  
Haligh, haligh, an awful lie  
This weight will now be satisfied  
I'm gonna give you only one reply  
I know not who I am  
  
-bright eyes  
  
Chapter Four  
  
He woke up periodically throughout the night, Harry did. He kicked, screamed, thrashed, writhed around on his new bed, causing the headboard to bang against the wall. He cried for his mother. He cried for his father. He cried for Black.  
  
I lay awake, watching the shadows play across the white ceiling. Shadows are like clouds - they can be anything. With me, they were usually angels, sprouting wings and flying off to a better place. That's how I got over my fear of darkness. Angels - the ultimate source of light.  
  
I laughed bitterly. If anyone knew that Severus Snape formed angels from cluttered blackness, there would be no living it down.  
  
The boy's in an awful fit now; I can hear his sobs through the walls. Not a hard thing to do, when the walls are paper-thin. Everything's been paper- thin lately, though. Even me.  
  
To think, my emotions had been on display all day. Crawling and crying to Albus Dumbledore like a lowly student, comforting Harry Potter . . . No, I wasn't myself anymore. I was a new man.  
  
I snorted. Right. A new man.  
  
The screaming had stopped. The headboard creaked in the aftershock of its victimization, and all was eerily quiet for some time. His whisper rang through my bedroom like wind chimes, distant and haunting.  
  
"Professor?"  
  
My heart skipped a beat in my surprise, and I sat up to distinguish his small form in at the threshold of my sleeping quarters. He was shaking.  
  
"Yes, Harry?" I attempted to keep my voice comforting.  
  
"Can I . . ."  
  
He didn't continue his question, stepping closer to me, shifting from foot to foot and looking down at his hands. Oh no, not this. I'm going to do this, aren't I? My last shred of dignity!  
  
I slid over, offering him space to crawl in. When he didn't, I sent him a soft smile and patted the mattress encouragingly. Shyly, he climbed in, rested his head on my pillow, and stared at the ceiling with a look of intense concentration.  
  
"What do you see?" I asked quietly, returning my own gaze to the ceiling.  
  
He didn't respond for a while, just rested quietly. He was so quiet that if it weren't for the sound of his soft breath, I would have questioned his vitality.  
  
"There's a boy," he said finally. "And a man."  
  
"What are they doing?" I asked.  
  
"Dying."  
  
I shifted my position to look at him, unsure if he meant the shadows on the ceiling or his nightmare.  
  
"What are they dying from, Harry?"  
  
"Neglect."  
  
"Who's neglecting them?"  
  
"Everyone."  
  
"Why do you think this?"  
  
"Because there's no one there to save them." He turned to look at me; his cheeks wet with fresh tears, moved closer, and tucked himself beneath my chin. I stroked his hair, whispered incomprehensible nothings into his ear until he fell asleep, tucked him under my blankets, and wondered why his body continued to shake.  
  
***  
  
The next morning, classes resumed for both Harry and myself. I woke up to find him clutching my pant leg for dear life, his head cuddled into my chest, his eyes tightly shut, his breathing hard, his lips chapped, his cheeks sticky, his hair messy, his arms scarred, his body shaking, his dreams tearing him to apart.  
  
"Harry," I whispered, rubbing his back. "It's time to wake up."  
  
He shook his head into my chest.  
  
"C'mon, love," I said softly. "Class. You have to learn, I have to teach. You know, the same routine as the past six years."  
  
"No," he moaned, his voice muffled by my shirt. "Don't want to."  
  
"Harry . . . " I trailed off warningly. "You have to go."  
  
He sighed, turned on his other side. The side not facing me. Is it so utterly pathetic of me to be hurt by such a response?  
  
Anger quickly seeped in. It was almost pleasant to feel it once more, to have that last grasp of sanity reclaim me. I cleared my throat, got to my feet, rounded the bed, kneeled in front of the boy.  
  
"Open your eyes."  
  
"No."  
  
A growl escaped my throat. "Yes, Harry. Shut your mouth. Open your eyes."  
  
He turned away again. The rage heated my blood to a boil, searing through me like the burn of a flame. I grabbed his shoulder, turned him on his back.  
  
"Open. Your. Eyes." I gritted the words through my teeth. This time, he obeyed, opening his bloodshot green eyes disdainfully. "Go take a shower and get ready for breakfast," I said. He laid still. "NOW, POTTER!"  
  
He jumped off the bed and scampered to the bathroom.  
  
Ah, normalcy. How I missed thee.  
  
He came out 15 minutes later, wearing a bathrobe, harshly tugging a comb through his wet hair and cursing beneath his breath.  
  
"Oh, honestly, Potter," I scowled, snatching the offending object from his hand. "You'll pull your hair out."  
  
"Will not," he grumbled.  
  
"You will," I told him. "You'll tug it all out and be bald in ten years time." I set to work, waging war on the tangles of his thick, black hair.  
  
"I can comb my own hair," he said indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm sixteen."  
  
"So you say, Potter," I replied distantly, focusing most of my energy on one particular impossible struggle, "Perhaps you should act it."  
  
"I do. Usually," he mumbled. "And don't call me Potter anymore. I like it when you call me Harry."  
  
It came loose. "Aha!" I said triumphantly. He leaned his head back to stare at me. I cleared my throat. "Um, I meant . . . Harry, get into your clothes. We have a big day ahead of us."  
  
He snorted. "A big day. Just like every day for the past six years."  
  
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.  
  
I think I like Potter best when he's crying.  
  
***  
  
I watched from the head table as Harry settled down with his fellow Gryffindors, smiling, laughing, greeting, discussing, lying. Granger and Weasley appeared to be rather perturbed, however.  
  
"How was your first night?" Albus asked from beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder.  
  
He looked amused. Blasted old man was ALWAYS fucking amused.  
  
"As well as expected, I suppose," I replied. "He has awful dreams. His bed was shaking as if he were the fucking twat from the classic Muggle film, The Exorcist."  
  
"Severus!" McGonagall reprimanded me sternly. "Language!"  
  
I smirked, shrugged my shoulders. "But that bit with the crucifix, Minerva- "  
  
Albus cleared his throat to cut me off. "Severus, do behave yourself."  
  
I snickered, casting a brief glance at the Gryffindor table once more and let out a relieved sigh. He was eating. Good boy.  
  
"Worried about your young charge, Severus?" Albus asked, his eyes dancing.  
  
I answered his question with glare.  
  
Of course I was.  
  
***  
  
--authors notes-  
  
Thanks for the words of support, guys. I'm not sure if you'll like this chapter or not. It starts off in its normal angst-ridden self and dissolves in humor. Oh well. Review! More will come. 33 


	5. Define Weakness

Chapter Five 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The day wore on as usual – the customary imbecilic laughter and chatter of the students created an explosion of noise pollution throughout the halls, in the classrooms, in my head; the usual mundane taps of their shoes against the dungeon floors alerted me of the inevitable potion accidents to come. The morose stressors that choose to linger in my banal life.

Neville Longbottom somehow managed to make a normally yellow potion a vibrant violet. Then it exploded. In my face.

It burned against my skin, took my sight. Draco Malfoy, the snaky whelp, assisted me underneath the emergency shower; but it was to no avail. After what seemed like hours of continuous vomiting, the effect of the botched potion wore off and I was soon returned to my well-maintained sinister self, assigning Longbottom with two weeks of detention, deducting 150 points from Gryffindor, and hollering for the class to "get the bloody hell out of my sight".  Harry stayed behind. 

"Potter, what did I just say?" I snapped, collapsing tiredly in my chair. He took a tentative step closer to me, his green eyes full of concern. "Don't you have a class to attend?"

He asked if I was okay, checked my eyes, touched my face, recommended that I go to the hospital wing. I sneered, told him to fuck off, I could take care of myself. He looked deservedly hurt, took a step back. I grabbed his hand, pulled him forward. He swayed from left to right, trying to get away, finally falling onto me. Thus was the dance of our compassion and we danced it well. Just as novice and awkward and beautiful as it was meant to be; my feet unmoving and his strides jaunty. 

"I just wanted to make sure . . ." he said. "You don't have to be such a git, you know."

I smirked.

"Potter-"

"_Harry_," he reminded me firmly.

"Harry, go to class."

"No."

"Are you asking for a detention?"

"I have to _live_ with you. That's detention enough." He sighed, resting his head on my shoulder. "Professor, you're being a _git_."

"I _am_ a git, Harry. Go to class."

There was no arguing after that. He got up, shot me an angry look, and stomped off.

I smiled to myself. Oh my sweet prince, your fury is my motivation; your tears are my humanity.

*-*-*-*

I was more tired than usual. I had developed a fever, sweltering and chilling; the effects of winter and summer. It was autumn. I sweated, I shivered; told my advanced class to do an independent study and write a one-foot long report over their deeds of the day. Around lunch, I began hallucinating. 

Every other piece of furniture in my chambers became The Dark Lord, as he were - his wand raised and poised to hit me with an Unforgivable. _To forgive is divine._  Blimey, I was no god.

When I entered my bathroom, I saw Harry Potter's lifeless eyes gazing up at me. His body dead and slumped over the cold porcelain of the toilet seat, his arms gashed open, whole layers of that pale skin removed, messy black hair slick with blood; a long, angry cut down his left cheek.

My heartbeat quickened as a chill ran up my spine. Couldn't see. Darkness was falling past my eyelids. I collapsed next to the dead Harry, only to find him gone.

"You driveling waste of space," a low hiss resounded in my ear. I couldn't see, but I knew the voice.

"Father?"

"You idiot! To think I fathered something so rancid! So asinine! I hope you die a rotten death, Severus. I hope you live in pain and die young. You insignificant, blundering fool!"

I felt my heart stop. 

I felt nothing.

*-*-*-*-*

"Severus?" 

A kind voice, a gentle touch. I didn't want to wake up, didn't want to open my eyes.

"Severus, it's Albus."

Albus…

"Harry said there was an accident in Potions that might have brought upon your sudden illness. You know better than to leave these things..."

His tone was one of disapproval.

_Sorry to have disappointed you_, I wanted to say, only to find that my mouth was dry and my voice was gone. 

"Open your eyes, Severus."

I reluctantly obeyed, blinking until my eyes adjusted to the light. I was in the hospital wing, on the clean white sheets of a hospital bed. Poppy Pomfrey was nearby, lecturing a Ravenclaw beater on the dangers of Quidditch.

"What happened, child?" Albus asked, regaining my attention. I sat up in bed, shrugged my shoulders. "Can you not speak?" he inquired sharply. Albus rarely took a stern tone. I have to admit, I was intimidated.

"Longbottom," I managed, though the name came out less than amazing. My voice was horrid and hoarse, choked up and dry. "Bad potion." Albus poured me a glass of water, which I drank greedily.

"Explain why you did not seek further care afterwards."

"Thought it was over."

"You were practically dead when Harry found you. Poor boy was out of his mind with worry."

"Then we're square," I shot back. "He was dead when I found him."

Albus cocked his head to the side as if trying to untangle my words; but before he could ask, Harry walked into the room, followed by his loyal Gryffindor sidekicks, Weasley and Granger. Granger, the pretentious muggleborn that she was, had brought me flowers. Weasley had brought me a scowl. I couldn't decide which gift of well being I preferred.

"I brought you tulips, Professor," the girl said shyly, setting them on my bedside table.

"To brighten my day?" I sneered, glaring at her as she broke out in a smile. "Or, Miss Granger, did you think it might up your score on that last report?"

"I _deserved_ a perfect score," she went straight to it, just as I knew she would.

"Pack it in, Hermione. He only deducted one point," Weasley's scowl deepened. "Greasy bastard failed me." 

"20 points from Gryffindor for blatant disrespect, Weasley," I smirked. He glared. I raised an eyebrow. "If you wish to discuss your score, I'll be less than happy to go over your paper with you." Harry chuckled, and I looked at him expectantly. It was the first noise he'd made since they had entered the room. 

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, Harry, I'm fine."

"I _told_ you to go to the hospital wing…"

"I know you did," I replied. "You were right."

He beamed. Weasley and Granger looked at me as if I had sprouted about fifty extra heads. I suppose it _was_ on rare occasion that I told a student that they were right…much less, that they were right and I had been wrong. But you have to understand those occasions were rare. They _never _happened.

"I think you should admit your faults more often, Severus," Albus said, his eyes twinkling as they always did. "It softens you."

I glared at the old man. "I don't _have_ faults to _admit_, Albus," I ground out, inclining my head towards the Gryffindor trio. I hated being degraded to human status in front of students. I didn't want them to believe that I made mistakes; that at times I, and this is the worst, could be on _their_ level.

"The bloody hell you don't," Harry snorted.

"Quiet, Potter." 

"HARRY!"

"Quiet, Harry."

That's when it happened. The worst thing that could happen. That feeling of fire, of anger, of hatred. The instantaneous pain that coursed throughout my left arm, as I hissed and clutched my skin. When I looked up, Albus was leering over me with concern. Weasley, Granger, and Harry were no longer in my line of vision.

"Where are the children?" I gasped. Albus moved, looked to the floor. I moved to the edge to see that Harry had collapsed. His hand was covering his scar, and his eyes tightly shut, leaking tears. Granger was soothing him, stroking his hair. Weasley, panicked, was patting his friend's back and murmuring words of worry.

"He's really mad," Harry whispered, finally opening his green eyes.

I knew what had to be done. I had to go. I had to apparate to my master's side, kneel before him, and kiss his robes. Gather his information and work against him, for the better of the Light and for the fall of the Dark. Darkness falls.

I swung my legs off of the side of the bed, gathered my balance.

"Severus, _no_." Albus hissed. "Remember what I told you? You're not-"

"I am," I cut him off. "I have to. If I don't, we'll never get anywhere." He grabbed my shoulder, but I pulled away. I looked down at the three students below, alarmed at the fear shattered in their eyes. 

"Professor, no," Harry shook his head. "Don't." He hugged my leg. "Please don't go…" Granger and Weasley gaped at their companion.

It broke my heart, I must say, to see him plead with me not to leave.

"Granger, Weasley… take care of Harry for me."

"Severus, you are not going," Albus said. "You're weak!"

Weak. Anemic, debilitated, decrepit, delicate, effete, exhausted, faint, feeble, flaccid, flimsy, forceless, fragile, frail, hesitant, impotent, impuissant, infirm, insubstantial, irresolute, lackadaisical, languid, languorous, limp, powerless, puny, rickety, rocky, rotten, senile, shaky, sickly, sluggish, spent, spindly, supine, tender, torpid, uncertain, undependable, unsound, unsteady, unsubstantial, wasted, wavering.

I, Severus Snape, refuse to be called weak ever again.

"Take care of Harry for me," I repeated, leaning down to gently disentangle the boy from my leg. "I'll be back later tonight."

I swept away, leaving my charge just as I had found him, broken and crying.

I retreated down to my chambers, dressed in fresh robes, and donned my mask.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

I groveled, crawled on my knees, kissed the hems of his robes.

Oh, bloody hell. The man needs to watch where he steps.

"Severus, have you learned anything new?"

I've learned that my heart still functions…

"No, my Lord. I'm afraid Dumbledore has been dormant for the past few days. The school has continued in its usual routine."

"_Crucio_."

Oh Merlin, ouch. Its times like these when I wish I were masochistic.

"And Harry Potter, Severus? What of Harry Potter?"

I panted for a moment, trying hard to regain my breath. "Well, my Lord, Harry Potter continues to fail Potions."

"_Crucio_."

Does this never end?

I lay on the ground, staring into his red eyes. He quirks a malicious smile, and yet I'm not feeling fear. Anger, yes. Much. That's all I ever have felt. Anger.

"I have a present for you, Severus."

However, I did not like the sound of that.

"A present, my Lord?"

"Bring her out."

I turned my head as much as it would allow me, to see Malfoy and Crabbe leading forth a girl child. She was crying, her arms crossed over her torn, bloody nightgown.

"A child, my Lord?" I asked, the sense of dread setting in.

"Not just a child, Severus. A filthy, _Muggle_ child."

My heart sank.

"Destroy her."


	6. In you, I'll see me, in the secret show

**_Chapter Six_**

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Oh, please. God no. Don't let him make me do this. _Please, no…_

She's vulnerable, standing barefoot with her toes dirtied in the mud, eyes glued open, hands quivering, mouth parted, hair tangled, nightgown ripped, cheeks cut, left index finger bleeding…

She can't be more than eight years old, you demented _fuck_! She hasn't lived long enough to filthy the world! From a cradle to a fucking casket, indeed.

I can kill her. I have to kill her. It's necessary. To stop evil, I must do evil. She'll be a sacrifice for the greater good. Sometimes people have to die, so others can live, right? Right. Like when mothers die during birth. Like when Lily died protecting Harry. This child will die so more like her can live.

She's dry heaving. Part of me wants her to have it up all over Lucius's robes. If this weren't such a grave situation, I might smile at that thought…

"_Destroy her_."

He keeps repeating that same command, over and over again. Actually, I think that's only the second time he's said it. I think I'm delusional, like a paranoid schizophrenic. No, Severus, stop with the Muggle psychology terms. Keep your mind on the task. Kill the girl.

"Muggle-lover," someone hissed.

The ultimate insult amongst the Death Eaters had just been thrown at me. If I had any false sense of dignity left, I would have killed the girl there, right in front of them. A simple _Avada Kedavra_, and she would be gone. A nice, painless death - free of nightmares and the insipid, ignorant schoolchildren who might harass her during her days. An empty doorway to nothingness. Bliss.

If only.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

The girl fell dead before my eyes. Her frail, bloodied body hit the mud, splattering the dismal brown against her infantile face. 

"Excellent, Severus," my master hissed into my ear. "Extremely well done."

There was scattered applause. I bowed, tears hidden behind the mask. 

The show must go on.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_the jagged end of a saw, thrusts forth  
rake her of her insides, throw it out to sea  
the insufferable eye of the bark, tree branch break  
and fall upon her  
break her  
(make her complete)  
bury me in your dirt, mama  
I've disappointed you so, shot straight up to the sky  
like a rocket ship superstar  
but it was only a daydream  
and I'm lying flat on my back, legs wide open  
waiting for the vultures to cure their malnourishment  
I've failed, mama, I've failed  
and I'm walking to the attic  
the soft creaks beneath my broken feet  
waiting for the floorboards to give way._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was nearly daybreak by the time I had returned to Hogwarts. The sky's first blush. New beginnings. Dawn.

Harry was asleep on the sofa in my chambers, shivering. I picked him up and carried him to his bed, tucked him in, removed his glasses, kissed his cheek. He must have been in REM, because he didn't wake up. I shut the door softly behind me.

The bathroom seemed miles away, but I made it before I threw my stomach up. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Severus?" 

A kind voice, a gentle touch. I didn't want to wake up, didn't want to open my eyes.

"Severus, it's Albus."

Albus…

I forced my eyes open. The glass of water was at the ready, and I sipped tentatively.

"What happened?"

Death. It's a major life event.

I remained silent, my eyes cast down on my legs. I wasn't in the hospital wing this time. I was in my own bed, in my chambers, in the company of my bare walls, and bottled potions ingredients. Familiarity.

"Severus?"

_How can I tell you, Albus? How can I tell you that I am the essence of destruction?_

"I…" I trailed off.

He placed a hand on my shoulder as I began to shake.

"Go on, Severus," he said soothingly.

"I killed a child."

He sat down on the edge of my bed, put a hand through my hair, told me to tell him the whole story. I did. I told him everything. He told me it wasn't my fault, that there was no escape, that I gave her a far less traumatic death than what could have been, that I did what I had to do. 

I screamed that I didn't try hard enough. 

I told him everything. I told him that I could still see her hit the ground; still see the mud splattering the face of innocence. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry ate dinner with me in my rooms that evening. I was pretty sure that Albus had put him up to the task of making sure that I consume something. I really wasn't hungry at all.

"Transfiguration was brilliant today," he said brightly. "We learned how to transfigure tables into chairs. Ron was extremely pleased with the lesson because tables are used for homework and chairs are used for sitting."

I'm pretty sure I put him off with my silence, but he continued on about his day seemingly undaunted.

After dinner, we had one too many games of Wizard's Chess. I won a total of one time and I believe it's because he let me.

I sent him to bed before he could ask about what happened. Not that it mattered.

He already knew.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Professor Snape, sir?"

My eyes flashed to the young girl in front of me: a first year Hufflepuff, timid and cowering (just how I liked them). White blond hair, blue eyes, simplistic childish features. Skinny, frail, delicate…_weak_. A victim.

"Yes?" I choked.

"Sir, I-I think botched my potion. It's the wrong color…"

She was so terribly afraid of me.

"I see," I managed a steady tone. "What color is your potion?"

She moved a strand of hair from her eyes, fidgeting nervously beneath my gaze. In this brief act, my eye caught onto a tear in the sleeve of her robe.

"Lavender, sir."

"And what color is the potion supposed to be?"

She was trembling slightly by this point.

"Plum, sir."

"Do you know what you did wrong?"

"Yes, sir…I think I added the frog spawn before I should have."

She bowed her head, ashamed and afraid. I had no intention of taking away points, of course. I had no intention of even failing her. It hurt just to _look_ at her. 

"I'm sure you'll do better next time," I said softly. She looked up at me, an array of surprise and relief blooming on her young face. "What happened to your robes?"

"Snagged it on a nail," she replied, hiding the rip embarrassedly.

I smirked. "Be more careful about that." With a wave of my wand, the damage was gone.

"Thanks, Professor!" she smiled. Then she walked off.

If only my mistakes were that easy to fix.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry was screaming again. He was also convulsing. The headboard banged against the wall with the passion of a 33-year-old woman and a 19-year-old boy consummating the relationship.

I got up, threw on a robe and walked to his room. He was crying so hard, sobbing, wailing. It took me a moment, but eventually I realized he was awake. His body was hidden beneath a pile of covers, his face obscured by his pillow.

"Sirius…"

And he had no idea I was there. His brokenhearted whisper was like a scream in the quiet room.

"God, Sirius, I'm so bloody sorry."

It was another case of Harry Bloody Potter taking life's inevitable end onto his own shoulders.

"Cedric…Mum, Dad."

Again.

"Severus."

What? I wasn't dead. 

I pinched my arm.

Yeah. I was alive.

Damn it.

"I'm not gone quite yet, Harry."

"Go away."

Bloody hell. Couldn't the arrogant brat make up his mind?

"No, I don't think that's a good idea." I sat down on the end of his bed and attempted to unravel him from the tangle of blankets, but he protested and lashed out. "Potter, don't act like a child."

"I'm not," he sobbed. "I'm not acting like a fucking child!"

"Watch your language."

"Watch yours." He rolled away from me. "Go away. I don't want to talk to you."

"You don't have a choice," I replied, easing closer to him. "Tell me what's wrong." When he didn't reply, I pried the pillow from his head.

Daringly, he glared at me. "Fuck off."

Much to his disdain, I grabbed and pulled him closer until his head was at rest on my chest. He struggled to get away, pushing at my side, clawing at my stomach, kicking the mattress in frustration. After an unsuccessful five minutes, he calmed down and surrendered.

"What's wrong, Harry?"

"Go away."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Fine, but I'm not saying a word."

"Fine. I won't leave your side until you do."

"You can't do that."

"Yes I can."

"How?"

"I'll find a substitute to take over my classes and follow you to yours. I'll sit with you at the Gryffindor table during meals, stand outside of the stall while you're in the bathroom, co-referee with Madame Hooch at Quidditch games, accompany you on your excursions with your friends-"

"NO!" he sounded horrified.

"The choice is yours, Potter."

"Harry."

"Harry."

I listened to him breathe for a long while. It seemed like an hour before he finally spoke.

"Everyone I touch dies."

I snorted. "I'm still alive. I'm in physical contact with you right now."

"You're going to go away, though."

I rubbed his back. "When the time is right, we all go away."

"No, you'll go before the time is right."

"It's called fate."

"_Fuck fate_."

"Harry, watch your language," I chided.

"They're just fucking words."

"Don't argue with me. Now what else is wrong?"

"I killed Cedric and Sirius."

"Black fell through the veil because of his own irrationality. Diggory was a victim of Voldemort." I felt his head shake and he started to sob again. "Shh, child." He had my shirt in a death grip, his knuckles hardening over my skin. "I know you miss Sirius, but blaming yourself will not make him come back."

"You blame yourself for that girl."

I tensed. "I spoke the words, my wand shot the magic and now she's dead. I deserve the blame."

"Not all of it."

"Harry, killing that child can be labeled a perversion. Voldemort called her filthy, but she was nothing but pure."

"Like killing a unicorn…"

"Yes, only her blood wasn't silver." 

"I wish my blood were silver. It would be more aesthetically pleasing when I cut myself."

I sighed, nudged him with my hand. "Have you recently?"

"No."

"Are you lying?"

"No."

"Positive?"

"N-erm…yes."

"If I find out you're lying, I'll…um…"

"Find a suitably horrible punishment?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Okay."

Eventually we fell asleep. 

When we awoke in the morning, Harry relayed his dream to me. He had defeated Voldemort and he, Ron, Hermione, Albus, Remus, and myself joined hands and sang Queen's "We Are The Champions". 

I had dreamt, too. 

In my dream, the whisper of a girl had turned into a whisper of Harry. I pointed my wand, choked out the words, and my child fell lifeless into the mud.


	7. A Very Merry Interlude

 SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1~~**Okay, guys. This has been appropriately entitled _A Very Merry Interlude_.It doesn't fit in with this story's formula at all, it's 100% warm you on the inside fluff. But hell, Happy Christmas, right? And happy it is. I hope you like it. I appreciate the reviews a lot, kids. You're amazing. Oh yeah, and listen to Bright Eyes. Yes, listen to a lot of Bright Eyes. I listened to Bright Eyes while writing every single chapter of this story. Well...except for this one...this one isn't sad. Haha.HAPPY HOLIDAYS!****~~**

**Chapter Seven**

***~*~*~*~*~*~***

**_(A Very Merry Talk)_**

Of all holidays, Christmas was my most hated and let me tell you, the holiday season came way too fast for my comfort that year. Harry's spirits seemed to be soaring. He would come in from supper singing childish carols, causing me to bite my tongue and grind my teeth.

"You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout..." he shook his finger in the direction of the sofa, where I was lazily sprawled, book in hand. "...I'm telling you why. Santa Clause is coming to town."

If I didn't live to protect the child, I swear my fingers would be puncturing his pretty little neck right about now. I _hated_ Christmas with the passion of a thousand burning phoenixes.

"Did you lose your virginity?" I growled.

He jumped, startled and embarrassed by the question. "No!" he squeaked, fidgeting. "Why would you think that?"

"You're too happy." I narrowed my eyes. "I don't think I like it."

He gaped at me. "You don't _want me to be happy, Professor?"_

I bit my lip, realizing how that sounded. Of course I wanted Harry to be happy...I just didn't want him to be happy if it meant that his innocence had been sacrificed.

"Let me rephrase that," I tried again. "You're too happy. I don't think I _trust_ it."

He looked at me searchingly. "Well, no...I didn't lose my virginity. So what if I had?" That's when I became very interested in my book. "Professor...?"

"I just think you're too young, that's all," I grumbled, hoping he'd drop the subject.

"Too young...to have sex?" he sounded amused. I nodded slowly. "I'm sixteen! Most kids my age popped the flower a year ago!"

I sat up abruptly and glared at him. "Sit down. We're going to have a talk."

"I already know about sex!" he protested. "And I'm not having it!" His fight was feeble and as my glare hardened, he sat beside me in an air of disdain.

"You know about diseases then, right?" I asked him. He nodded, blushing. I like the fact that I can so easily embarrass him by talking about sex. It's fascinating. "Good. So you know the reasons to stay abstinent?"

His jaw dropped. "Abstinent? I'm not staying abstinent! Did you stay abstinent?"

"Don't be foolish," I sneered. "Of course I didn't. I lost my virginity at fifteen."

"Then why are you on my arse about it?"

Hmm...why indeed? In my eyes, Harry was younger than sixteen. I tucked him in at night. I even carried him to bed sometimes. I allowed him to nestle next to me after a bad nightmare. No, my Harry was not sixteen. My Harry was not old enough to lose his virginity.

"Because you're too young, that's why."

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, let out an exaggerated sigh. "Whatever."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"What? NO! Why are you suddenly interested in this?"

"Boyfriend?" I persisted.

"NO!"

"Why are you so happy?"

"I like the hols that's all," he said hastily. "I'm in good spirits because people are so happy and exchange gifts and it's merry and happy and all that. It doesn't mean that there's somebody screwing me out of my bloody mind."

I cringed at the thought.

"Good. Never sing that song again."

"What song?" he asked, confused.

"That vomit-worthy tune about Santa Clause you were crooning when you walked in," I replied venomously. 

"Santa Clause is coming to town?"

"Yes, that one."                                                                                                

"But he _is coming to town!" my young charge insisted._

I stared at him wearily. "Harry, you do know that the annual Weasley sweater does indeed come from the Weasleys, right?" He pouted. My heart melted. Fuck. What was happening to me? "Well, maybe Mrs. Weasley sends it with a house elf...er, _named Santa?" I can't believe I just tried to justify Santa Clause._

"I know that Santa Clause isn't a real entity," Harry said softly. "I just think it's nice. Like...all of this Christmas cheer and good will towards all men bullshit-"

"Language," I interjected.

"Erm...stuff comes from a big jolly fat guy with a Dumbledore-wannabe beard who gives little kids presents and stuff. He's like this superego character that does nice things for other people and doesn't reap any benefits but the cozy feeling you get after you do a good deed.. Sometimes I wish I could meet him.."

"You want to meet Santa Clause..." I said slowly.

"NO! I mean...I wish I could meet someone like him?" He suddenly became very interested in my book. "What're you reading? Is it good? Can I borrow it when you're through?"

"You want to meet Santa Clause," I repeated.

He scowled at me. "Why did me singing _Santa Clause is Coming to Town_ make you think I had sex?"

I smirked. "I'm not sure. It's not a very erotic song, is it?"

Harry shook his head vigorously. "No, it really isn't." His eyes brightened suddenly as he laid his head on my lap and peered up with mischievous eyes. "So, what'd you get me for Christmas? Cause I _know_ you got me something."

Of course I had. No matter how much I hated Christmas, I loved Harry.

"Spoiled," I clucked my tongue on the roof of my mouth. "Spoiled children get lumps of coal."

"That's naughty children," he countered. "Even if I were spoiled, I'm not all that naughty. So what did you get me?"

"You think I'd tell you?" I asked, reaching over to tickle his side, causing him to giggle and writhe as if being tortured.

"I think you should tell me, because I'm important," he smiled angelically.

"Important? Arrogant maybe..."

"I _am important," he insisted. "So tell me."_

I looked at him incredulously. Did the boy never give up? I was getting sick of this conversation. Sick of his excitement about presents and good will.

"Why don't you tell me what you got me," I replied cooly.

"Because it's a surprise!" he grinned. 

I rolled my eyes. "Have you done your Transfiguration essay?" I asked. He nodded. "To the best of your ability?" He nodded again, this time a little more slowly. "Good. Go to bed."

"It's eight o'clock!" he sounded horrified.

"Yes, it is."

"Yeah, well it's too early."

"I'll tell you when it's too early. Go to bed."

He stared at me, dumbfounded. Then, as if I were wearing my thoughts on my sleeve, he said, "I'm sixteen, not six."

"Don't argue with me."

"In due time, I WILL go to sleep," he said. "I'm old enough to know when to go to bed."

I was beginning to feel more than a little frustrated. I fixed him with my sternest glare. You know, the one that the students say could turn people to stone and other such ridiculous things. "Go to bed before I put you to bed." Apparently I hadn't lost my touch, because he stomped off.

He returned a moment later in his pajamas. "Are you mad at me?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Of course not."

"Then why are you being so fucking mean?" he demanded.

I really needed to break him of that goddamned swearing habit. "I won't tolerate your foul language anymore, Harry."

"You're ignoring my question!" he pointed out. 

What was I supposed to tell him? _Christmas, Harry, I hate Christmas. I hate talking about Santa Clause and presents and cheer. The only decent thing about Christmas is the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, which turns foul because the bloody wanker starts to like the fucking holiday._

"I apologize. It wasn't my intention to be mean. You just didn't get much sleep last night and I wanted you to get more tonight."

"But I don't_ want to," he grumbled._

"Well, you _have to. So stop _acting_ like a six-year-old and go to bed." When he didn't move, I growled, "Harry James Potter..."_

"Aren't you going to tuck me in?" the boy looked upset.

Oh Merlin, what was happening to my life...

I got up, lead him to his bedroom, and tucked him in. I moved to leave, but he softly stopped me with, "You usually kiss my forehead before leaving."

I turned around. "What's making you so needy?"

"You're not following our usual mushy routine. I think you're mad at me." His words were accusing, but his tone was hurt.

"I'm not mad at you, Harry." I leaned down to tenderly kiss his forehead. "I promise."

"Then why are you mad?"

"I'm not mad. I'm just in a bad mood."

"Why?"

"I don't feel like talking about it, okay?"

"You make me talk about stuff I don't feel like talking about."

"I make you talk about important things. This isn't important." I moved the hair from his eyes. "No more questions. Try to get some sleep." I extinguished the light. "Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

****

**_(A Very Merry Act of Favoritism)_**

It was the last day of classes. Sixth year Slytherins and Gryffindors. Neville Longbottom's potion had yet to explode, but there was no doubt in my mind that it would come eventually. Draco Malfoy kept shooting malicious glances in the direction of Hermione Granger. There was an incessant humming coming from Lavender Brown that sounded most excruciatingly like 'Jingle Bells'.

I had to do quiet breathing exercises to keep myself from killing them all.

Harry, paired with Draco, was looking quite angry. I should probably stop pairing them together, as I know how Draco tends to grate Harry's nerves. 

Big, heavy glass. I let out an uncharacteristic yelp of surprise and managed to dodge the offending object before it hit me in the head. It shattered when it collided with the wall.  

"What in the bloody-" I bit my lip. Can't swear in front of the students. "Would anyone care to explain?"

They stared at me blankly. A few blinked. 

I looked dumbly at the wreckage, which appeared to just be a lot of glass. Then it hit me...well, not really, because then I would really murder the lot of them.

"So which one of you _Seers had the extraordinarily clever idea of bringing your crystal ball to Potions class?" There was an incredible amount of scathe in my voice. I was quite proud._

"Crystal ball?" Parvati Patil squeaked, rummaging through her things. "That was _my crystal ball!"_

"So, Miss. Patil..." I sneered. "What was _your_ crystal ball doing flying at _my_ head?"

I had to admire Patil, she wasn't frightened of me in the least. She threw up her hands and cried, "I don't know, Professor Snape. I wouldn't throw my crystal ball anywhere, much less at your head. I _liked_ my crystal ball!"

"20 points from Gryffindor for bringing a weapon to class, Miss. Patil." I turned my attention to the rest of the room. "So...who did throw Miss. Patil's crystal ball at my head?" They all looked at eachother nervously. Weasley raised his hand. "Mr. Weasley?"

"I think it was Malfoy," he said, jerking his thumb back at the blonde boy. 

"Shut up, Weasel!" Draco growled.

Inwardly, I was rather pleased that Weasley felt comfortable enough with me to try to turn me against Draco in class. Outwardly, I glared daggers at him.

"5 points from Gryffindor for wrongfully defaming a classmate, Weasley." Harry raised his hand. "Yes, Mr. Potter?" 

"Malfoy was aiming for Hermione."

Granger whirled around to glare at the boy. "Nice aim, Ferret."

"You knew he was targeting Miss. Granger and you didn't try to stop him?" I asked, unable to keep the surprise from my voice. Harry looked at his desk guiltily. "I see. 10 points from Gryffindor for not helping your friend. Now everyone continue with your work."

Granger shot me a look that could rival Minerva McGonagall's. I raised an eyebrow in return. She continued to glare, indicating her head towards Malfoy. I raised both eyebrows. Finally she sighed and asked, "Well, aren't you going to_ punish him? He was trying to kill me, you know."_

"I'll be the one who decides who tried to kill who, Miss. Granger," I replied cooly. 

"He aimed a crystal ball at my head, Professor Snape!" she sounded thoroughly exasperated. "Now this is ridiculous. It even almost hit _you_!"

"So it did. It added excitement to the class."

"Excitement?" Granger demanded.

"Yes. Weren't you excited?"

"I most certainly was not."

"10 points from Gryffindor for not being excited. Return to your work, Miss. Granger, before I make it 20." Grumbling, she obeyed and the class worked diligently until the period was through.

Afterwards, the golden Gryffindor trio stayed behind to have an angry word.

"He was trying to kill Hermione!" Harry snarled. "If I hadn't pushed that ball away from her, she would've had a concussion at the very least!"

"10 points for not being excited?" Granger asked, bewildered. "You could have at least come up with something a little more justifiable, Professor!"

"5 points for wrongfully defaming?" Weasley huffed. "I was right!"

I rolled my eyes, lead the three to my office, and put up a silencing charm. "You know I can't do things in your favor."

"It was an expellable offense," Granger argued. "He tried to bring potentially lethal harm to a student without any provocation." As I am the compassionate person that I have become, I realized that she was beginning to fight back the urge to cry. "It's not my bloody fault I exist!" I offered her a chair. She obliged.

"Mione, we'll hex that little bastard 10 ways till Sunday for you," Weasley offered, patting her shoulder. "It'll be alright. Don't cry."

But cry Granger did, so out came the tissues. Harry glared at me, inclining his head towards his friend,  mouthing, "Make it better." I groaned inwardly, not wanting to be nicer than I had to to a child that wasn't Harry.

"Hermione," I said softly. She looked up, eyes glistening, startled that I had used her given name. "50 points to Gryffindor for being victimized in an inexcusable way." A ghost of a smile fluttered over her face. To the surprise of us all, I took a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "Better?" She nodded and threw her arms around me. 

"Oh, Professor Snape, I always knew that you were really nice underneath that cold exterior!" she cried happily.

I groaned. "Just don't tell anyone. My reputation is at stake." I glared at Harry and Weasley. "If I hear anything about a fight with a Malfoy, there will be a cauldron cleaning for a Weasley and a Harry."

Harry groaned. "That's the most embarrassing sentence you've ever structured."

"At least I didn't try to give you the talk again," I offered. Weasley doubled over in laughter as Harry blushed furiously.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring that up again..." he mumbled, looking sideways at his friend. "Look, Ron, it wasn't even really _the_ talk, you know? I came in singing-"

"You were SINGING?" Weasley howled.

"Um, erm..." Harry fumbled for words. "Okay, look, he demanded to know if I had lost my virginity. So I was like no and then he tried to talk to me about diseases! It wasn't really the talk, you know. I know about sex and stuff."

"I still think you should practice abstinence," I smirked. Weasley fell to the floor, clutching his gut.

"_Professor," Harry hissed. "Look, Ron, it's REALLY not __that funny, is it?"_

Weasley continued to laugh, tears of mirth streaming down his face.

"Ron!"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_(A Very Merry 'First' Fight) _**

Harry was quite obviously still angry with me in the days that followed. He gave me the cold shoulder, avoided me at all costs, answered my questions icily in abrupt statements. He didn't allow me to tuck him in, much less give him the nightly kiss on the forehead. So much for our "mushy routine".

Note to self: don't embarrass Harry in front of friends. It may be satisfying at the time, but the consequences are quite painful.

It was the day before Christmas Eve and his cold treatment was not improving. After dinner, he marched into the chambers, stomped by me and into his room, and slammed his door with an air of finality.

Truth be told, I deserved it. I hadn't stopped with just mentioning 'abstinence' and 'the talk'. I might of slipped in something about dear old Saint Nick and Harry's secret desire to make his acquaintance. Weasley had found that tidbit of information particularly hilarious. I can only presume that the minor ribbing Harry received at that moment was only the beginning of days of ridicule.

I missed my Harry and how he used to light up when I was around. I even missed his excited talks about Christmas spirit and all of that insipid rubbish. When I tried to console him after his nightmares, he grumbled that he was fine and pushed me away.

Pushed me away...

Bullocks! 

Deciding I could no longer tolerate my charge's anger, I got up and softly knocked on his door. He didn't answer, as expected. I tried the doorknob, only to find it locked. I sighed.

"Harry, open the door," I ordered.

"Fuck off!"

I mumbled my own swears beneath my breath. "_Alohomara_!"

He had piled himself underneath all of his covers so that all I could see was a bulge in the bed. How childish.

"Can't we talk this out?" I tried.

"Fuck off," he repeated.  I settled beside him on the bed, sprawled my legs out and leaned against the headboard. "_Go away_."

"Why?" I asked. He didn't respond, so I tried again, "Why are you so mad at me, Harry?"

The bundle started to shake, so naturally I unbundled it, pulled my Harry into my arms. This time he didn't push away.

"Y-you..."

"I'm sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends, Harry." The words felt foreign to my tongue. "It was wrong of me, but you know I was only playing."

That only applies to Harry. Severus Snape does not play.

"That's not it!" he pushed me against the headboard and crawled away. "That's not it at all. You told them about stuff that was only supposed to be between you and me. It was a betrayal of confidences!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Harry...I hardly think that anything I tell Weasley about Santa Clause can be considered a betrayal of confidences." I tried not to laugh at the absurdity of the statement. He looked at me distrustfully as I extended my arms. "Come on, poppet. It's behind us."

He tumbled gracelessly off of the bed and gave me the meanest look I think he could muster. 

"Fuck you," he said coldly before turning and walking out of the room.

I sat in a state of paralysis for a moment, digesting what had just happened. I had been compassionate and apologetic, had I not? I had! I had admitted fault! A most difficult thing to do. And what did he do?  He threw it back in my bloody face!

"HARRY!"

I launched myself out of the room to find him gone. I was enraged. Like a bull. 

I ran all around the dungeons, up to the headmasters office, and finally to Gryffindor Tower. He was there, with Weasley and Granger, playing a game of Exploding Snap. Granger's mangy cat clawed at my pantleg.

"Ron and Hermione want me to stay here tonight," Harry said, not looking up from his game. "It's hols after all."

I clenched and unclenched my fists, telling myself to breathe. Since when was _my Harry infuriating? My Harry was nice and innocent and fun to talk to and loving and great and amazing and fascinating and every other word synonymous with _good_. _

"Well, you're _not staying here tonight," I told him firmly. "You're coming back with me right now."_

"I'm in the middle of a game," he replied nonchalantly. "I think I want to stay here tonight, so I think I will."

I folded my arms, "Is that right?"

He chanced a glance at me. "That's right." And went back to his game.

"Harry, maybe you should go-" Granger began.

"No," he cut her off. "He can't make me."

I looked to Weasley, who kept looking my way nervously. He wasn't concentrating very much on the game, so I didn't feel too horrible about what I did next Actually, I was rather remorseless. 

I pulled him out of his chair and threw him over my shoulder.

"I was in the middle of a game!" he repeated angrily. I was also quite sure that his face was flushed, as it tended to do when he was embarrassed.

"You can finish it tomorrow. Weasley's heart wasn't in it anyway. Now, say goodnight." When no sound came from Harry, I looked to other two Gryffindors. "Goodnight, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley." I stepped out of the common room, my charge still over my shoulder, smiling slightly at their mixed expressions.

I ran into Albus on my way back to the dungeons. He looked amused again.

"Severus, why ever are you carrying Harry in that peculiar fashion?" he inquired, mouth twitching.

"Because he's a bloody bastard," Harry grumbled. I smirked and smacked his bum with my free hand. "HEY!"

"So I can do that when he calls me names," I answered smartly. "We have things to discuss. I'll see you tomorrow, Albus." 

When we finally reached the chambers, I finally let him down. He exploded like one of Neville Longbottom's potions. I had embarrassed him! I had no right to treat him like a child! I had, again, betrayed his confidence! I was deceptive! I was mean! I was horrible! He_ hated_ me!

Hated me...

"If you're quite done, you can go to your room." My voice was ice, my face emotionless. However, his words resounded in my ears long after the slam of his door reverberated throughout the dungeons. I mulled over the reasons for his actions. Maybe Harry had a chemical imbalance? His mood swings were massive, much like those of a pre-menstrual Millicent Bulstrode.  

He was acting like he was twelve, but when he was twelve, he wasn't like this. Was he? I didn't know him when he was twelve, aside from my snide remarks about his parents and condescending words during Potions class. No...the boy had not acted like a child then. He had an old soul.

But ever since I found him that faithful day in the bathroom, he had been an overdramatizing suicide case on legs. He had reached out for me with a dry smile and teary eyes, pleading for my care. It was only two months ago, when I was still in full cold effect...and I had snatched him from the floor immediately and taken him "home". 

It occurred to me then, that_ I was the one who was needy. Not Harry. Me. Two months ago, I had despised Harry Potter. One  month and a three and a half weeks ago, I had cradled Harry Potter on my lap and laid him down to sleep. And now, I referred to him mentally as _my_ Harry. Not my student, Harry. My Harry. My child, Harry._

James Potter is either howling in his grave with laughter, or crying in despair.

For the way he was acting now, he was still my Harry. He was my Harry acting as I saw him, a child. Perhaps he was secretly enjoying this argument, my scoldings, my "deception" as he so claimed. Perhaps, he was looking for a reason to be mad, despite my attempt to reconcile.

"Why haven't you come in yet?" 

The voice was sad and I turned around to see my Harry leaning against the open door frame, his mouth threatening a pout.

"I didn't think you wanted me to," I replied, patting the space beside me on the sofa. He obliged.

"I don't hate you, you know..."he trailed off.

"I know," I agreed.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Not anymore."

"You were, though?"

I sighed and opened my arms. He leaned into my embrace, humming contentedly as I rubbed his back. "Harry, in the time that we've spent together, this is the most infuriating you've ever been. I apologised for my earlier actions, so why did you choose to continue it?"

"Well, I still kind of thought you were being a git. And you just _expected_ me to forgive you, as if offering me a hug and calling me poppet would make everything better." He paused. "It's not like it was a big deal, I guess. I overreacted. But part of me wanted to be mad at you."

Aha. Severus Snape: child psychologist extraordinaire. . 

"Why?"

"To see what you would do."

Testing the boundaries. Yes, yes...fascinating. I allowed him a small smile, patted his head and pushed him up. "Okay, well...does this conclude the "Harry hates Professor Snape" segment of Christmas holidays?" He nodded. 

"Can I stay in Gryffindor Tower?" I shook my head. His jaw dropped. "But the fight is_ over." He put emphasis on the word 'over', as if I hadn't been the one to officially conclude our feud_

I smiled wearily. "Consider it your punishment."

"Punishment? For what?"

"Pissing me off."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_(A Very Merry Slumber Party) _**

Christmas Eve came upon me in a most aggravating way. First, my bed started to bounce. Second, something poked me in the ribs. Third, Harry screamed at the top of his lungs, "It's CHRISTMAS EVE!"

"FUCKING HELL, POTTER!" I shouted, slamming a pillow over my ears to block him out.

"FUCKING HELL, PROFESSOR!" he shouted back. I hit him with the pillow.

I wanted to throw him into a Muggle garbage can on the streets of London, suddenly beginning to realize why people so "inhumanely" abandoned their children. I stretched and yawned, smiling as Harry cringed at the multiple cracks and pops of my body.

"You're old," he deadpanned.

I glared. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Can't I just want to surprise you on Christmas Eve morning?" he batted his eyelashes. I threw another pillow at him.

"No," I snapped. "What did you bloody want, Potter?"

He grinned. "Well..." he trailed off. I think my glare was putting him off. He suddenly looked nervous and rather hurt. "Nevermind. You'll just say no."

"Ask me the question before I suspend you from the ceiling by your ankles and laugh as you swing," I growled.

That did the trick, though I'm rather sorry that it did.

"Can Ron and Hermione spend the night? Tomorrow's Christmas and we always open our presents together..."

Oh, Merlin. No. Not this. Anything but this.

"...and I know you said I couldn't sleep in Gryffindor Tower, but you never said anything about them sleeping here! We won't make _too_ much noise, Professor. I promise..."

He was looking at me with huge eyes that put puppies to shame, rambling on in such pathetic pleas, maintaining a note of pre-expected disappointment.

"Ron even says you're less of a git now, so maybe you can get along better. That would be nice, wouldn't it? And Hermione thinks you're the greatest because you're always so mean but secretly you're REALLY nice. You really are nice, you know? I mean, you're one of the nicest-"

I scowled.

"-nicest _meanest people I know! You're so __nice at being mean, Professor. If you were any meaner, I'd think you were...well, _mean_.  And that's why you're so ace-"_

"Harry."

"-because you're so mean. If you weren't so mean, I don't know what I would do. Where else could I find a mean guy to tuck me in at night? To kiss my forehead? And not only that, but you're a mean guy that makes potions-"

"Harry..."

"-and potions, Professor, despite my atrocious grade in your class, are ace. They can do incredible things, like put a stopper on death!"

"HARRY!"

He stopped speaking and looked to me expectantly. I sighed.

"Fine. Weasley and Granger can spend the night." He threw his arms around me, squealing his thanks. "BUT..." he detached himself and stared at me forlornly. "You all must be in bed by ten. I don't want any late night boisterous activity from giddy Gryffindors."

"How about twelve?" he asked eagerly, as if it were up for negotiation. I glared. "Eleven thirty?" he tried again. 

"Ten," I said firmly. He pouted. "Harry, what happened to 'I'm sixteen not six!'?"

"Sixteen year olds don't tend to be sent off to bed at ten o'clock," he shot back. "You're so unfair."

Indeed.

"Good little boys are in bed early so Santa has time to make his rounds," I smirked.

He threw a pillow at me.

***

By eight o'clock, I thought Albus would have to make me live with Minerva. I wanted to kill myself.

Harry and Weasley were devising plots to sabotage Draco, while Granger put her know-it-all two cents in about how they shouldn't start things. Of course, they didn't even bother to hide these conversations from me. They sat in the center of the living room, a set of Wizard's Chess between them, while I was in my normal place: sprawled on the couch, book in hand. You'd assume they would conspire in Harry's room. Or at least talk in softer voices.

"Instigating his attacks makes you just as foul as he is," Granger chided. 

"Pack it in, Hermione," Weasley snapped. "You should be on our side-"

"I _am on your side, idiot," she interrupted. "I just think you're being daft."_

"I am not."

"Yes, you are."

"Not."

"Are."

"If you two are going to bicker over such trivial things, could you not do it in my presence?" I hissed venomously. They cowered. Yay.

Harry scowled at me. "Be nice."

"I don't have to be nice. These are _my_ chambers." I grinned as he grumbled in discontent. When I looked to Weasley and Granger, I discovered them gaping at me like fish. "What are you two on about?"

"You _know how to_ smile_?" Weasley asked, tactless as ever._

Harry snorted. "He's human, isn't he?"

"Wow, he really _is." Weasley was still stunned. I raised my eyebrow._

"Don't let this display fool you, Weasley. Truly I'm really a Muggle cooking device with greasy hair."

Weasley's jaw dropped. "You possess a _sense of humor_?"

Granger smacked her forehead in exasperation. I was inclined to agree with her gesture.

About half an hour after Weasley discovered I was human, Harry suckered me into allowing the three of them to go knick food from the kitchens. Well, it wasn't so much that he suckered me…it was more like I was finding an escape from annoyance. It also gave me time to transfigure a meek-looking Christmas tree and tend to Harry's present. Albus knew about Harry's present. Albus was _part_ of Harry's present. I smiled freely. Albus was the part of Harry's present that Harry would _hate_ me for. 

The part of Harry's present that wasn't Albus was quite a pain in the arse. In fact, I don't know what on earth possessed me to purchase such an evil thing.

"Come here, you little bastard," I cooed, picking up the black puppy from the bottom of my closet. I grunted in disdain when I stepped in something wet. "I should have gotten him a kitten instead." The insipid creature nipped at my finger. "But you'll give him fond memories of Black, so don't even worry about it." He yipped. "Yes…just do me a favor and don't shit all over the place during the night." I extracted a big red ribbon from one of my drawers. "I know this is foolish-looking, bastard dog, but it's festive and Harry likes festive." I know I know…I'm wondering why I'm having this conversation with a puppy, too. "Would you mind so much if I put it on you?" The puppy licked my face. It was brainless, therefore the perfect pet for my Harry. I gently tied the bow around the puppy's neck and charmed it to stay in place. "Are you ready to go to the headmaster?" He whimpered. I sneered. "Nice response."

I left a note for Harry in case he returned before me, hid the puppy in my robes, and stealthily made my way to the headmaster's office.

"Severus, you look positively diabolical," Albus smiled. I nodded, handing him bastard dog. "So, you wish for me to be down in your rooms by four?"

I grinned. "Yes, Albus. Four. You have the polyjuice at ready, I presume?"  He nodded. "Excellent. He won't_ know _what to think." 

After a few more minutes of small talk, I bid Albus farewell and made my way back down to my chambers. The Golden Gryffindor Trio had returned and were still happily munching on their snacks from the kitchens. 

"It's ten o'clock," I noted, looking pointedly at Harry. He choked on whatever he was eating.

"So?" he tried to recover.

"So…bed."

"NO."

"Let's remember our agreement, Harry." I had, of course, expected protest. 

"At _ten o'clock_?" Weasley asked.

"Yes, Weasley. Ten o'clock." I rounded on Harry. "You expected me to just forget about it, didn't you?"

"Well-"

"Well, nothing. Bed. All of you. Now get out of my sight." They scampered into his room.

I entered a few minutes later to find Harry and Weasley sharing his bed, while Granger was, as hoped, on the extra mattress I had managed to conjure. 

"What do you want now?" Harry groused. I handed him a bottle of Dreamless Sleep Potion.

"I don't want you to have nightmares. It's Christmas." I heard something that sounded like an "aww" escape from Granger's mouth, but when I snapped my head around to look at her she was pretending to be asleep. I watched Harry drink his potion, smiling at the frown still etched on his face. "Now, Harry, the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner Santa will come." He threw his pillow at me as Weasley and Granger giggled.

"I'm becoming mad at you very quickly," my Harry gritted. Much to his dismay, I kissed his forehead. 

"I know, poppet. Sweet dreams." As I left the room, I heard Weasley demand, "did he just call you poppet?" and Granger saying something along the lines of "how sweet." 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**_(A Very Merry Christmas) _**

As planned, Albus entered my chambers at four o'clock with the puppy in hand.  I walked quickly back into Harry's room with a lit wand and shook the boy awake.

"Wha-?"  

"Shhh, Harry. There's someone in the living room."

"Death Eater?" Harry shot out of bed immediately, snatching his wand from underneath his pillow. Granger and Weasley woke up in the raucous. 

"What's going on?" Weasley asked tiredly.

"There's a Death Eater in the living room," Harry told him.

"A Death Eater in the living room?" Granger gasped, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Hush, children. We do not know that," I said soothingly. "Come and stay behind me. We'll see." 

So they gathered their wands, and formed a line behind me. We crept out into the living room. Albus was still quietly and harmlessly bustling about.

"_Lumos_," Harry whispered, training his light on the "intruder".  He stopped dead in his tracks. Much to my surprise, he hid behind me.

"Is that…?" Weasley trailed off.

"It _can't_ be." Granger tried to sound matter-of-fact, but failed miserably. 

"_Santa Clause_?" Harry asked.   
  


"Ho ho ho," Albus rumbled heartily. "You've caught me in the act."

I bit back my laughter. Maybe this was a little cruel…after all they _were _sixteen. 

"But we didn't leave cookies!" Granger sounded like she was on the verge of a panic attack.

"Or milk!" Weasley yelped.

Harry continued to hide behind me.

"Why, little Harry…why are you frightened?" Albus boomed. I bit my tongue so hard that it could have bled.

"I was always afraid of the Santas in shopping malls," he admitted quietly enough so only I could hear.

"You're _afraid_ of Santa?" I asked, bewildered. Harry could face and outwit the Dark Lord multiple times and he was afraid of Santa Clause?

"His voice is really big," Harry said quietly. "Like Uncle Vernon's."

Ah. Well, that put a damper on my fun. I turned and enveloped my Harry in my arms. "But this Santa has a present for you, love. Don't you want it?" Harry seemed to consider it for a moment, before nodding. Albus handed him the red ribbon-ridden, black bastard puppy.

"A puppy!" Harry grinned broadly, beaming at Albus.

"Ho ho ho! I must be off," the headmaster declared, before leaving. I rolled my eyes. Albus didn't make a very convincing Santa Clause.

A few hours later, I let them in on Santa Clause's real identity.

"But you'd need a piece of Santa Clause for the polyjuice!" Granger argued. "How did you do it?"

I smirked. "The magic of Christmas."

Harry was too delighted with his puppy to be too angry with me about the Santa Clause stunt. Much to my delight, he had named his new pet Bastard.

"Oh! I almost forgot!" Harry dashed off to his room and returned with a wrapped package. He handed it to me. "Merry Christmas, Professor."

I raised an eyebrow and tore away the paper to find a copy of _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas_.

Smiling, I reached out my arms to embrace my Harry.

And the Gryffindor trio would live on to say that The Potions Master's small heart grew three sizes that day.

***~*~*~*~*~*~***

**Okay, kids. Don't even consider this part of the story. It's just a Happy Christmas interlude I deemed necessary in the act of cheer (which I don't really have, but oh well.) I hope you enjoyed it and had a good holiday! 3333**

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	8. Ron Weasley's Big Idea

 SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1**Chapter Eight - _Ron Weasley's Big Idea___**

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"Severus? Wake up, Severus..."

I groaned and rolled over. Nimble fingers traced my back before shaking my shoulder. I swatted at them, wanting for them to go away.

"Go 'way. I'm sleeping and you're insignificant."

The fingers went away for a moment. If I had possessed the energy, I'm sure I would have smiled in triumph. 

"The definition of insignificant, _Mr. Snape_, is unimportant. To be unimportant in your eyes would require me to be inferior to you. As your former professor and deputy headmistress of this educational institution, I would expect you to realize the_ significance of my role."  ___

Brilliant. I just pissed off McGonagall. 

"Didn't know it was you, 'Nerva," I mumbled in apology.__

"Yes, I would expect you didn't. Now get up this instant. Harry's unconscious and in the hospital wing."

I sat straight up, widening my eyes and rubbing the sleep away. How could Harry be in the hospital wing? It was seven in the bloody morning! He had been fine last night when I sent him off to bed.

"How? What? When? Why?"

"He fell off his broom, Severus," she told me as she pulled me out of bed. I threw on a set of robes over my pajamas and leapt into my shoes. "Merlin knows what he was doing out on his broom unsupervised at this time of the morning, but Weasley-"

"Weasley was with him?" I interrupted. "Weasley knew he was doing this?"

"Weasley said the two of them were merely flying around the Quidditch Pitch for early morning exercise and Harry tried a rather risky stunt-"

"A risky stunt?" I interjected.

"Stop interrupting me," she snapped, annoyed.

"Sorry. Continue."

"Yes, so Potter tried this risky stunt and fell in the process, luckily landing in the arms of Hagrid who happened to be passing by at a most fortunate moment-"

"Then why is he unconscious?" I asked.

"Patience, Severus. I was getting to that. We believe that he fainted, either on the broom or during his fall. Either way, Poppy has assured us that the boy will be fine and probably awaken soon. Albus sent me to get you. Apparently, you're the first person Mr. Potter should see when he wakes up." She raised her eyebrows at me and I looked at my shoes. "I do hope you'll reprimand him, Severus. This wreckless behavior cannot be tolerated." At my glare, she added. "Don't give me that look, Severus. You know you coddle the boy. Merlin only knows why as you used to despise him." She stopped with me outside of the hospital wing. 

I was seething. My colleagues felt that I _coddled_ Harry Potter. Harry Potter had gone flying at a ridiculously early hour without my permission. My Harry was lying unconscious in the hospital wing.

"I will take care of it," I assured her, turning to walk in. 

"Happy New Years Eve, Severus," she added lightly to my retreating back.

***

"Would you care to explain why you did such a ridiculously foolish thing, Potter?" I snapped later that afternoon. Harry had awoken about half an hour earlier and after my _normal display of 'coddling'; I had reverted to my alter ego of Big, Mean Potions Master. The latter did not go over so well._

"I just wanted to go out," he replied. "Is that such a crime?"

"Without informing me first? Yes, that's a crime." I replied. _While I was asleep? That's a deception, _I added to myself. "I want you to reminisce on the past five years." He stared at me. "Do you remember when I insulted you?" He nodded slowly. "I didn't truly mean that until now. You're foolish, irrational, and reckless, Potter. You're selfish and cocky and neither of those things will get you anywhere but an early grave. You could have died. You _would have died had Hagrid not happened along. I'm incredibly disappointed in you." _

A herd of emotions stampeded over his young face, but the one that set in was apathy. "Is there a point to this?" he asked.         

I bit my bottom lip. He was _supposed to look ashamed. _

class=Section2> 

"I suppose not, if you can't see it for yourself," I replied coolly. "I'll be taking your broom for the next month and you're grounded to the chambers for the next week, starting tonight."

He shrugged. "Whatever."

How bloody infuriating.

***

We walked back to the chambers in silence that night. Bastard was there to greet us at the door, nipping at Harry's heels. He had already developed a brainless loyalty to his boy. 

"Go to your room, Harry," I said quietly. "Take Bastard with you."

He didn't reply, but obeyed. He didn't even slam the door, just allowed it to click softly shut as not to create a disturbance. I collapsed with a sigh on the sofa, feeling exhausted. It only took a few moments for me to drift off to sleep.

***

I awoke to the obnoxious yip of Bastard. The playful puppy had somehow managed to get onto the sofa and was nuzzling my hand with his wet nose. I opened my eyes blearily and sighed. Harry had most likely become irritated with the constant company and set him loose to excrete feces all over the rooms.

Sixteen is old enough for the responsibility of a puppy. I wasn't going to tolerate that. 

"Harry?" I asked, opening his bedroom door. It was completely vacant. Not a sound. I heard Bastard whimper, so I turned back to see him scratching at the bathroom door. "In there, is he?" I knocked on the door. "Harry, are you okay?"

There wasn't a reply and as the next few moments were consumed in unpleasant silence, I felt my body fill with dread. "_Alohomara_." 

His clothes were spread unevenly over the white bathroom tile. The sink faucet leaked lazily, drip after drip in monotone. One of the towels had slipped gracelessly off of its rack to land in an untidy pile on the floor.

And my Harry; my precious Harry; my sweet Harry had laid his head to rest on the curved edge of the porcelain tub. He smiled gently at me, his eyes holding a slight spark meant especially for me. My beautiful, wonderful Harry, one arm tossed weakly over the side of the tub, the other resting on the flat of his stomach. His sweet, shallow breathing tossed the water into small waves, tiny soothing ripple music. 

He swallowed, and I followed the motion down his throat, beneath his tender, pale skin. My lush little Harry, eyes fighting sleep in his pink water. My heart-crushing, green-eyed angel waving his fingers halfheartedly at the fallen razor that stained the floor.

I didn't know I was crying, but I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.

"Why?" I croaked.

His lips turned upward in a slight smile. 

"I was a bad boy, Professor," he whispered. "Bad boys are s'posed to bleed." 

"No, Harry," I tried to keep the shake out of my voice. "No, you're not a bad boy. You're not supposed to bleed, Harry." I lifted his naked body out of the tub, trying so very hard not to sob. "You're not bad," I repeated. He slung his bleeding arms over my neck, kissed my chin.

"Then why are you crying?" he asked.

"Because you're brilliant," I told him, choking on a sob. "Because you're so very brilliant, Harry. You're my brilliant, sweet, good boy. My good boy. Good boys aren't supposed to bleed." His head lulled to my shoulder. His eyes closed. "Please stay awake, darling. For me."

"For you," he repeated.

For me.

***

"I think maybe we should consider St. Mungos," Albus said softly, resting a hand on my shoulder. I jerked away.

I don't know what he was thinking...thinking I would agree to letting Harry go, to subject him to the mental ward of St. Mungos. I would rather die.

"No, I can help him," I said.

"Severus, I know you're trying your best but-"

"I CAN HELP HIM, ALBUS!" I shouted, falling to my knees. "He's my Harry. I need to help him through this. I can help him out of this, Albus. I can make it better." I rambled on nonsensically, rocking back and forth, staring at the floor. "My Harry. My precious, darling Harry. You can't take away the only thing I love, Albus. Please don't."

I fell completely onto the floor of his office, curling into the fetal position. It was all my fault. I had scolded him too harshly. I had forced him out of my sight as soon as we returned to the chambers. I had given him the impression that he was a bad boy.

I sobbed so hard I thought a few vital organs would make their way out of my mouth.

"Oh, Severus, my sweet child," Albus knelt next to me, running his hands through my hair. "Such a loving father you've become and I would have never expected it."

_I'm not his father, I wanted to say, but I couldn't get a word out. I was fifteen again, sobbing myself sick in the headmaster's office._

"We won't send him away, child," he told me. "Not this time."

"He's not a bad boy," I choked. "He thought he was a bad boy. He thought he was supposed to bleed. My beautiful, warmhearted Harry." 

"Shhh, Severus. I know."

After I had collected myself, Albus dabbed at my eyes with a tissue. 

"All gone, Severus," he whispered in my ear. "No more tears." 

I allowed him to embrace me, tucking my head beneath his chin. Of course, this is when Granger chose to make an appearance. 

"Harry's awake!" she said hurriedly, dashing off without a second thought.

I leapt to my feet and bounded after her to the hospital wing. He was sitting up, in his usual bed. He looked weary and frail, as if a simple tap would shatter him like glass. Granger and Weasley were standing over him, Granger lightly touching his black hair and Weasley shifting from foot to foot, silent and swaying.

I took my place on the other side of the bed, lightly grabbing his hand. He squeezed it reassuringly.

Nobody spoke for several minutes. I actually took it upon myself to break the silence.

"I love you, Harry."

His eyes shifted in my direction, the bright emerald orbs boring into me. 

"You're not angry with me?"

I shook my head. He launched himself into my arms.

"I love you, too." I rubbed his back as he started to cry. "I'm sorry for going out without permission. I'm sorry I fell off. I'm sorry I disappointed you. I'm sorry-"

"Shhh, poppet, it's okay," I cut him off. "It doesn't matter right now." I picked him up and leaned back onto the bed to settle him on my lap.

"Harry," Granger said, looking as if she felt intrusive. "Please...promise us you'll never do that again."

I felt him tense, so I hugged him more securely. "Harry," I said gently. He nodded to show that he was listening. "At least promise that before you do something like that, talk to someone about how you're feeling."

It took a few moments, but finally he whispered, "I promise."

I kissed the top of his head. "That's my good boy." He cuddled his head into my chest and I felt my body warm. 

"Ron?" he addressed his silent friend. "Speak, mate. I'll get paranoid if you don't."

Weasley squirmed, glancing at his friend and then down at the ground. "Harry, I..." he trailed off, gnawing at his bottom lip. As if regaining his composure, he leveled his look, taking in both of us. "I think Professor Snape should adopt you."

"Huh?" Harry asked, sounding appropriately confused.

I had to agree. I certainly wasn't expecting that.

"Well, let's look at the pros and cons of the situation," Weasley said seriously. "We'll start with the cons. There's You-Know-Who." He paused, thinking. "Yeah, that's it. Now the pros, mate. He may be a greasy git in class, but outside of class he's bordering ace..."                        

Merlin, I never thought I'd hear those words come out of Weasley.

"...he can teach you things about potions; and potions, despite our atrocious grades, are ace. They can do brilliant things like put a stopper on death...."

It's nice to know that the two of them shared a conversation about potions outside of class.

"...even if you don't do all that well with the learning of potions, he can boost up your grade because you'd be his loving adopted son, Harry..."

That might be taking it a little far.

"...he could actually give us house points as opposed to just taking them away..."

Maybe.

"...we could smile on the inside during Quidditch games because we'd know the evil, sadistic Head of Slytherin House would be secretly rooting for Gryffindor..."                        

Okay, yes. But mind you, not Gryffindor. I would be rooting for _Harry_. 

 "..._and_, Harry, we could see eachother over summer hols!" 

I knew there was a catch.

Harry squeezed my hand, shifting his head on my chest. "What do you say, Professor?" he asked. "You, me, and Bastard could be a happy family." I wrapped my arms tighter around him.

"The Dark Lord, Harry..."

"Quit spying," Granger said simply.

"Your relatives-"

"Are foul, fat Muggles," Weasley interjected.

"Albus-"

"Thinks it's a brilliant idea," the headmaster finished, walking into vision.

I nodded, hugging my Harry closer. Then I made to move, but he stopped me with, "Don't move, Professor." I asked him why.

He told me he was listening to my heartbeat.

***

**Hey all. I'm glad you guys liked the interlude! I was in an awful mood, so I had no trouble returning to the angst, however. Well...quite obviously. I'm not sure where to go to after this. I'm not even sure if I should just end here...but feel free to review with your opinion. If you wish for me to continue, I'll continue. I'll be able to think of something at some point.**


	9. The Necessity of a Cure

 SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1**_I'm Sure You'll Contract My Disease_**

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**_Chapter Nine: The Beginning_**

Death: it's delectable. Like chocolate. Smooth, milky goodness smeared over your tastebuds, sticking to the roof of your mouth, rolling like a kiss at the edge of your lips. It slides unsteadily down your throat, clogs your artery (some say it releases the same chemical in your body as would be released if you were in love). 

Death, my endearing gift to a sunshine-haired girl. You eat chocolate. You consume death. You are a Death Eater, Severus Snape. You are, very much so, a Death Eater.

I could keep up this conversation with myself for hours upon hours. I'm the only one who will listen to it. If Black were alive, he'd support me in my hours of self-loathing, berate me until I was on the verge of self-destruction. I'm a time bomb, and I know it. _Tick tick tick_...when will Severus explode?

And if I stood up at this very moment, I could peek into the doorway that leads to my bedroom and see Harry curled up on my bed, squeezing the feathers out of one of my pillows His face would be a look of utter contentment, soft and at rest, his pink lips parted to aide a slither of saliva in its escape. And I would think to myself, why is he on my bed? Why isn't he on his bed? I would ponder this for minutes, how it came to be that Harry Potter was more comfortable with me than he was with himself. I, a murdering fool, and he, the prince of the light. The Gold of Gryffindor.

And how it has become possessive. He is my Harry. I am his Professor. He is my golden boy, my beacon of hope, the light in my darkness. For some reason having Harry with me is like having the sun for a shadow.

I'll be honest to say that I don't know if I'm okay with this. Adoption. What is adoption? Adoption is possessive. To adopt is to acquire. Harry will be mine. But isn't he already mine? This will make it official, and when official, he will cease calling me Professor. What will I be? Dad? Daddy? Father Dear?

Drop me on my skull already, James; you've had me hanging here for way too long. 

I wish things had worked out differently. I really do. I wish that I had never found him that day, soaking in a sea of red melodrama, whispering foolish words about saving me.

Save me, Harry. Save me like you save everyone else. Just like you saved Ginny Weasley. Just like you saved whatever the next Muggle target was after Voldemort destroyed your life. You will not save me, you silly child. Nothing can save me. 

I am up now, rather unsteadily so. I'm lightheaded and shaky, as half of my head feels numb. Harry is exactly how imagined him, only he's not asleep. He's definitely looking right through me.

"Alright, Professor?" he asked quietly.

"I'm fine."

He rolls over, away from me, and pulls a blanket farther around himself. What is he if not cherubic? He appears to me to be nothing more than an angel child with too many emotional scars to handle. 

The tap is still leaking in the bathroom. I don't even think I've bothered to clean up the bloody mess yet. The porcelain's most likely still stained red, his clothes still strung around the room. 

What if he does this again? What if I'm not there? What if all of this is a mistake, just to leave me even more miserable and alone than I was before he bled his way into my life?

Drama. If you're dramatic enough, you can have your way with anything or anyone. This is what Harry did with me. He's manipulated me. I am a willing pawn in his treacherous game. There is no doubt in my mind that he will kill himself, or get himself killed. Then, I will promptly put my wand to my skull and die.

"Are you feeling better?" I asked.

"Much," he raised his head and smiled at me. It was a dazzling smile. His teeth were very straight and white. The candle that was lit in the corner of the room reflected from the mirror into Harry's front teeth, which reflected into my eyes. I needed to sit down.

"Do you want to take a nap with me?" Harry asked hopefully. 

I pretended not to hear. I stared at my nails, noting that they looked particular grimy. Maybe I should pay more attention to detail.

"Harry, look at the ceiling," I ordered him softly. 

I wasn't even looking at the ceiling myself. I just wanted him to get his thoughts off of me, and staring at the ceiling is a mind-consuming habit that can detain such things.

"Why?" he asked, though I'm sure he obeyed. He had become habituated to taking my orders in stride.

"Tell me what you see." I was still examining my fingernails. I really didn't care what he saw, as long as he didn't see me. I was too bleak and devoid of beauty.

"People with wings," he told me. "I see angels."

I stiffened.

"You see angels?"

"I see you."

Precisely what I didn't want to hear, yet his relation to me and angels slightly amused me. Angels. Winged creatures that did good, brought motivation and will. If I were an angel, I'd be a dark angel. If I were a unicorn, I'd be a dark unicorn. If I were a big cat, I'd be a panther. If I were a wizard, I would be a Death Eater.

"You think I'm an angel?" I asked.

"To me, you are," he responded quietly. "You care about me and that in itself is supernatural. Because you're you and I'm me. It's extraordinary. Therefore, you're an angel."

"I don't have wings."

"You do have wings," he told me. "You just don't know how to fly."

I just don't know how to fly.

"You don't want to adopt me," he stated, after a few minutes of silence.

"That's not-"

"You don't. It's too weird for you. It's too weird for me, too. We'll kill eachother or we'll kill ourselves. We'll kill ourselves, or we'll be killed. Either way, we're about to officially engage in a loving parent to child relationship on the verge of death."

"You call me Professor," I replied.

"What else am I to call you, Professor?" he asked, a hint of scathe in his voice. "Shall I call you Severus? Sev?" I settled into a laying position next to him. The angels on the ceiling flapped their wings in greeting...or perhaps they were merely ridiculing me. "Shall I call you Father? Voldemort's loyal supporter? Or, Professor, shall I call you Uncle?" I turned my head to look at him, but he continued looking at the ceiling. "Uncle Severus," he spat out distastefully. "Dad. Should I call you Dad? Or Da? Or Pops? Or Papa? Or Daddy? Tell me, Professor...tell me your name of choice."

King Severus The Wicked, I wanted to tell him. I wasn't ready to be Dad or Da or Pops or Papa or Daddy.

"Goodnight, Harry," he mimicked me. "Sweet dreams, poppet. I love you, Harry." He turned blazing green eyes to me. "Every kiss on the forehead has been a lie." 

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, Harry. Everything about the past few months has been an act. I'm a bloody brilliant actor, aren't I? Cradling and coddling you the way I do." I threw a pillow against a wall, attempting to express my anger. Unfortunately, a pillow isn't exactly Parvati Patil's crystal ball. A pillow does not smash into a million deadly pieces. A pillow merely bounces off the wall and falls quietly to the ground. "Yes, Harry. I'm the angel. I'm the angel who you bloody saved."

He grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly. "You remember what I said then..."

I'll save you before I go.

"How could I forget?" I spat. "How could I forget what you said? I took you after that. I took you in and fed you and treated you like the prince everyone thinks you are. Because you're a bloody savior, Harry. You saved everyone else, and you've tried to save me. That's all you are. A bloody savior."

His hand went limp and he released his hold. His eyes glittered with an undefinable emotion. His mouth was set in a frown.

"I'll save you before I go," he repeated without feeling. 

I knew I had hurt him worse than he'd ever been hurt before. I knew that this was the ultimate manipulation.

I have been ill every waking hour of my tortured, malcontent life. Perhaps this is because my life is my illness, for life in itself is a sickness. A chronic, painful sickness. Life is a terminal case. 

Harry was my cure, my escape. The tingling after the numbness. Harry was the food I kept down, the water that cleansed my dry heart. Harry was the reason time stopped, the reason I haven't gone off yet. But now it seems, that the clock has resumed its ticking.

"I love you, Professor," he said in the same lifeless voice. I had broken his heart. Again. You glue back the pieces, you drop it again. It breaks...again. Again and again. The same, painful cycle.

"I love you, too," I whispered, but he didn't hear. He was sobbing too loudly.

I left him there, on my bed. I left him wailing for me to hold him, to come back to him, to stroke his hair, to kiss his forehead, to tell him that it would all be fine in the morning. I left him there to claw at the bandages on his wrists, to reopen his wounds, and let a new stream of fresh blood stain my sheets. I left him there in injustice, to remember the days I would insult his father, insult him, hate him, destroy him. I left him there to sink deeper in the mattress, make an impression, soak the pillowcase in his tears. 

I left him there to ponder his disease, hoping that perhaps he would realize that there was only one straight answer, one obvious cure.

I, on the other hand, left the dungeons, left the castle and ran to the lake. I dove in and waited to drown.

Harry, my beautiful Harry. I saved him from himself once. I picked him up and carried him and cradled him on my lap. I kissed away his tears and we played shadow ballet before sinking into sleep. Prince Harry, crying as I held him up and kept him close, allowing him to feel my soft, loving breath on his neck. Pleasuring in the way he breathed me in. My poor, unsuspecting Harry, who never realized I was contagious.

***

When I arrived (thoroughly soaked) back to my chambers, he was sleeping, curled tightly against one of my pillows. His face was damp and flushed, his white bandages stained red. 

"My darling boy," I murmured, stroking his hair gently. "It all hurts so much and I can do so little." I brushed my lips across his forehead in a tender kiss. 

"Burning," Harry mumbled softly in his sleep.

"Burning?" I prodded gently.

"I'm burning alive," he mumbled again. 

A hint of panic rang through my body, but he smiled sleepily in contentment. Slightly reassured, I planted another kiss on the top of his head.

"Burning to ash," he sighed. "And I'm rising up again."

"Yes, my beautiful little phoenix," I whispered into his ear. "You're rising up again."

He opened his emerald eyes and cracked a small smile for me. "You're wet."

"I went for a swim."

"How was the water?"

"A little chilly."

He patted the space beside him and again asked, "Take a nap with me?"

This time I agreed, laying down beside him after replacing my wet clothes. I kissed his forehead and wrapped an arm around him, rubbed his back.

"Lie to me," he said in a childish voice. "Tell me you're happy."

"I wanted to die," I told him. 

He smiled and nestled in closer, laying his head on my chest.

"I knew this would happen," he said. "It's only the beginning."

"You knew...what?" I asked.

"I knew you would contract my disease."

***

**_to be continued..._**


	10. Background Music

I'm Sure You'll Contract My Disease 

****

Chapter Ten: Background Music 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~__

_Prance your fingers in the direction of detachment  
Nightmare nightmare  
Raise your head and rear  
Your graceful body in the air  
Tower above me, push me down  
I'm bleeding all over  
This sheet of paper  
Screaming in the shower  
Waiting for my lungs to fill with water  
And no one ever hears  
No one  
Ever  
Listens_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The children were loud that morning; with eyes bright and shining, hiding their giggles behind their hands. They were picture perfect, walking in circles in the dark. Their pretty smiles were merchandised, mere fabrications of nature; raising their eyebrows as they pass the food around their House tables, sometimes with an awkward spill. I had the sudden image in my head of hundreds of couples of parents sticking doll parts together, grinning blissfully at the idea of the perfect combination to make the perfect child.

But none of them were the perfect student.

Some of them were stealing quick glances at me, fearing their impending Potions lesson in which I would rip them apart, dress them down, make them feel less than magical; less the Muggle; less than human.

I took no notice of these glances. Most of my immediate attention was focused on the burn in my spine. The Cruciatus Curse seemed to have been stronger the previous night; stronger than any other night I had been subjected to it, anyway. Perhaps it was just my age catching up to me…or maybe I was becoming a victim to frailty. Either way, I had weakened and I knew it.

The headmaster's placating hand sent an insuppressible shudder through my body. His gentle, concerned words gave me heartache. I shook my head, negating whatever his question had been. I never really heard his words. I had stopped hearing words a long time ago.

"Where's Harry?" I croaked, noticing that Harry wasn't with Granger and Weasley.

He replied, but I couldn't hear his words; only his voice. It was trying so hard to comfort me, but I was unable to find solace in Albus.

"Where's Harry?" I repeated, standing up. 

Everything seemed nonsensical at that moment: the surprised eyes of the students, the disconcerted murmur of my colleagues, even the manic laughter of Peeves.

_Where's Harry?_

But nobody answered, and if they did, I didn't hear them. They were useless and incompetent, meaningless and speechless. And all I wanted to do was scream at them for not being able to give me the correct answer. That's all I wanted to do. Scream. 

So I did.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Words can be profound. Words can spark recognition, realization, familiarity, comfort, hatred, love, beauty, affection, melancholy, guilt, shame, sympathy, sorrow, and regret. Words can give birth and end life. Our existence is based on words. The majority of our emotions are based on scant communication. Upon this confession, life is not so significant. 

My shoulder had begun to hurt and with a quick movement, I cracked the offending area.  I had raged out of the Great Hall. He didn't say as much, but I guessed that Dumbledore was under the impression that I would not be teaching that day. 

I was sitting outside, resting my back against the trunk of a tree and staring noncommittally at the frozen, snow-topped lake. Snowflakes were obstructing my view, dusting my eyelashes. I didn't bother to bat them away. I was too drained to move.

I felt like sleeping. Sleeping for a long time. I felt like freezing to death.

I slowly shifted my gaze to my long white fingers, turned pink with cold. I arched an eyebrow in their direction and gave them a wearisome glare. There was warmth in me. I was so warm inside.

There was nobody outside at 9 o'clock that morning. It was just the snow, the lake, the tree, and I. At times, I smiled. The snowflakes weren't really falling. They were dancing to the ground; swirling and floating playfully around eachother, sometimes touching and combining in their descent. Snowflakes had no need for words. Snowflakes were emotionless.

I am Severus Snape. I am a Potions Master. I am a spy.

I tinker with ingredients and live to lie. Another thing about words: words are often false. Words are the dawn of deception. I, as a spy, am the ultimate example of deception. My lord will punish me for deception, but he is too much of a fool to know who deceives him. My lord doesn't need words to communicate. He only needs murder. He can murder me now, as long as he doesn't murder me with words.

Words are the bane of my existence.

"Yer riskin' frostbite there, Professor."

I didn't feel like looking up into Hagrid's concerned eyes, but I did glance at his huge boots just to make sure I wasn't imagining his existence. He lowered himself and threw a blanket over me.

"You shou' be dressin' more warmly," he said, picking my hands out of the snow and shoving a glove onto them. I didn't protest. I didn't move. "Yer fingers will fall off if you just leave 'em in the snow like that." He waited for me to speak. When I didn't, he added, "You're goin' ter need those fingers, Professor. Kids are goin' ter need someone ter teach 'em how to put just the right amount of stuff in ter their Potions. You can't be doin' that without fingers" I heard him making to leave.

"Hagrid, wait…" 

"Yes, Professor?"

"How does Harry do in Care of Magical Creatures?"

I turned my head slightly to see him grinning at me, his eyes tearing with emotion.

"Jus' fine, Professor. 'Arry does jus' fine."

When he spoke, I could see his breath escaping from his mouth like the smoke from a Muggle cigarette. The world was dressed in blue and white and the humans in Technicolor. Our words were casual in our thespian surroundings; the environment of a scene in a breathtaking book during a revelation. 

The words were scattered all over the page.

"I remember when you were jus' a boy, Professor," Hagrid told me. "You were so shy and frightened."

I rested my head on Hagrid's shoulder and listened to him talk about his memories. I didn't say anything else, just minded the sounds falling from his mouth, interacting and connecting and dancing to my ears. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Are you okay? You seemed pretty freaked at breakfast."

Harry brushed the hair out of my eyes that night and kissed my forehead.

"I'm fine, Harry."

He glared at me and uttered, "Liar. I was right in front of you at breakfast and you didn't even see me. You were just looking for a reason to explode."

"You're right. I was just looking for a reason to have something to say."

He gave me an odd look. "You're weird, Professor."

I wasn't hurt. I wasn't angry. I just smiled and shrugged. 

Words were only the background music to life, anyway.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Author's Notes: Right now you're saying, "Uhhh…" and my only response is "Meh, I wanted to write something."


	11. A Valentine For A Narcissist

I'm Sure You'll Contract My Disease Chapter Eleven – Blooming 

~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~

The season of the dead was coming to a slow close. The snow was melting away, turning the dirt to mud. The icicles were rhythmically dripping from the ledges of the castle, falling atop the heads of the students as they walked out to the grounds. I saw a few Hufflepuff boys a couple of days previous, mouths wide open and trying to catch the sustenance. Morbidly, I imagined the entire spear crashing down, impaling their throats, and their blood spurting and staining the pure, white snow. 

I am a sick, sick man.

It was February… February fourteenth - the day that graced me with that awful day: St. Valentine's Day. I had a yearly ritual on St. Valentine's Day. That ritual included drinking myself into a stupor and barely avoiding choking on my own vomit in the morning. I knew that every year the students noted my curious odor, but of course they would never say anything. I think they realize that after a night of drinking, I would rip them to shreds and not give it a second thought.

The current year, for some reason, was far worse than the previous thirty-five. Perhaps I could rest the blame on Harry, but I would never do that. Harry was my sweet, sweet Prince. Harry was the last shove in the birth of spring. 

I just knew that I had grown sluggish, and that my strides had slowed. My usually dramatic exits had lost their infamous flourish – my billowing black robes no longer came to a billow, but a small flow. It was as if as I exited, a meager gust of wind had just enough push to ruffle them.

But enough about my depression…there are real problems to attend to. 

After my outburst in the Great Hall in January, the children had become suspicious of my relationship with Harry. They all knew that he was rooming with me, of course - that was a hard thing to keep quiet as Hogwarts had more rumors flowing than a Muggle preteen magazine.  However, I believe that they had thought that Harry was under constant torture, that perhaps he was cleaning my rooms or writing extensive essays. The most humorous thing I had heard was "I bet he's testing all of his sarcastic remarks on Harry to see which ones will make us cry in class." The Slytherins, I knew, were under the impression that I was turning Harry Dark. I had created that rumor myself. I was rather proud of myself.

But now – now they had no idea what to think. Professor Snape, Death Eater, had called out for Harry Potter, The Idol of Light, in panic-stricken concern. Whatever did this mean? I'm sure they fancied some vulgar sexual escapade in the dungeons. Teenagers were so perverse. 

 Of course, that was better than them thinking that I actually _liked _Harry Potter. That could lead to horrendous mishaps, like my bloody limbs spread all over the Great Hall with a pleasant note of apology from The Fecal Lord himself; or even worse – the ruin of my bad-arse reputation.

"Professor Snape! Crabbe's potion exploded!" 

I snapped my head around to glare at Granger.

"Why, thank you, Miss Granger. I surely could have observed that for myself, but I know you just could not pass up the opportunity to be absolutely pretentious." Granger shrugged and glared back. I sent the four soaked students to the hospital wing and spent the rest of the class period dressing down those that remained because that was what I always did, and I knew that it was best to stick to routine. 

Lately, routine is all that has been keeping me together. 

Since I've housed Harry, I've discovered that life has its "ups" and "downs". An "up" would be Harry doing something ridiculous, like believing in Santa Clause. A "down" would be something irritatingly obnoxious, like Weasley's simple existence. 

There are "downs" and then there are "devastations".  "Devastations" occur when Harry is bleeding.

 "Professor, I really do think…" Granger went off on a rant about something or other, but I couldn't bear to listen. Granger's rants could easily be described as a "down", even if she was saying something intellectually stimulating.  

I noticed my "up" standing behind her, looking quite upset and shifting from one foot to the other. Ronald Weasley stood beside him, with a rather nervous expression.

"Okay. What did you do?" I cut Granger off, looking at Harry for an explanation. The boy shrugged, but flinched when I stood up.

"No, no," he said hastily. "You have to sit down for this."

Of course I had to sit down for it. It was always better to take a "down" while you were already sitting down. It was an everyday survival skill.

"What did you do?" I repeated sharply.

"Nothing!" Harry replied. "I didn't do anything. This isn't a confession."

That was new.

"Then what is it? I don't have all day to sit and listen to your adolescent trivialities."

The boy glared at me. "You weren't even _teaching_ us during class, yet you haven't got the time to listen?" 

"Don't speak to me in that tone, Harry." He had the grace to look chastised. "Now, what in the bloody hell are you on about?" 

Yes…sitting down while receiving a "down" is always the best way to go. And this was about as low as "down" could go. If you're up while hearing such absurdity, the messenger will most likely end up in "devastation". 

"Repeat that," I spoke through gritted teeth.

"I don't think you want to hear it again," Harry replied uneasily. "We're going to leave you now. We don't want to be around while you're livid." The Golden Gryffindor Trio scampered out of the classroom, as to give my rage time to fester.

~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~

In times of abasement, I find that raw fury restores my dramatic enthusiasm. My robes had that extra "oomph" (if you will) as I strode purposefully towards the Astronomy Tower; my lips set in a tight, thin line, my teeth gritted, and my eyes surely flashing death at anyone who dared to cross me. 

In the Astronomy Tower, was the degrading creation that would surely be my ruin; a ridiculous prank concocted by foolhardy students who underestimated my murderous capabilities. Of course, Albus would never allow me to slice the throats of schoolchildren, but he had no reason to know. I could hide their bodies in my closets. Harry wouldn't squeal – he adored me far too much. He'd hum to himself and attempt to breathe through his mouth, so as not to inhale the stench of decay wafting through the chambers.

I stared numbly at the brainchild of teenaged malice. It was so incredibly…baneful. It hurt, really, to think how much villainous effort had been taken to create such a perversity.

I gnawed at my tongue, contemplating how to go through with my retaliation. Perhaps I would cut out one of their hearts and send it to the other in a heart-shaped box. The note would read: _Would you like some chocolate, dear?_ After all, hearts and chocolates were symbols and products of love. Not only would I be cruel, I would be clever. As I was Slytherin, I would have it no other way.

Happy Valentines Day, love from Professor Snape.

Yes, I was brilliant. 

Unfortunately, not even my brilliance could have prevented the wall-sized evidence of Valentines Day, 1977 – a photograph that indicated that unlike my fellow classmates, _my_ one true love was _myself_. 

I'm not quite sure what the children were trying to prove, however. To my understanding, masturbation was one of those well-accepted acts of need, with one hundred percent pleasure and zero consequence. Their shallow attempt to belittle their most-hated teacher only resulted in puzzlement. It was well-known that I could never find…love! Such a distasteful word! I'd rather drink curdled milk than be susceptible to such imbecility. 

The 1977 Severus Snape grinned dazedly at me.

As an adolescent, my narcissism was up to the sky. I suppose that's what happens when people oppose you with ridiculous acts of atrocity…at least _I _did myself some good, anyway. 

But how did this picture come to be? Who would take a picture of me wanking? And even more importantly, how did it end up the hands of a student?

"Kids are cruel."

Harry sounded distant.

"Ignorant," I told him. "Cruelty and ignorance are two separate things that go hand in hand. Then there's just idiocy, which produced this particular endearment." I watched my frenzied ejaculation with a small sense of nostalgia before burning the picture from the wall. "It doesn't show enough promise to be labeled as cruelty."

"Are you upset?"

"Slightly."

He smiled. "I think the plan backfired a little. All the girls are talking about how…what's the word?" He paused thoughtfully. "Oh right. How _alluring_ you were." I smirked. "Hermione told Ron you looked really passionate and said she found that 'fetching'. Needless to say, Ron went ballistic and snatched up the closest dictionary to see if fetching had a second, negative connotation."

My smirk threatened a smile.

"Do you know who did it?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "I don't. I don't even know what they're trying to say. Every bloke this side of the Atlantic has been jerking himself since he was twelve, anyway. Hypocritical dunderheads."

The smile escaped. "Too true."

Life is composed of  "ups" and "downs"; and though masturbating is a definite "up", a blackmail picture of a particular session just _might _be a "down".  

~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~

**Author's Notes:** It's going somewhere…I promise. It's just taking a while to get there…


	12. The Severity of Deception

I'm Sure You'll Contract My Disease 

Chapter Twelve – Severity 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Severus."

My name implies that I am severe; that I am of a certain severing existence – my cutting premise: the lash of a tongue and a dark scowl. I don't know how many times I have felt the need to reassure myself of it; _I am Severus. I am Severus. I am Severus…_

I am Severus who cowers in the cold, dank dungeons of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am Severus who glides through the halls, embracing the fear of children. I am Severus, eternally harnessed to a cold mask and a steely disguise and yet I am Severus, not nameless.

"I am not fifteen, Albus."

I most certainly am not. I am thirty-six.

The headmaster knows my name. He has used it often, usually in a tone that softens the rigid edge of the word. _Severus._ If my angry demeanor incites fear, then surely the statement of my name incites alarm. 

…it certainly startles me.

"Severus."

_When will you learn, you old fool?_ I will sever myself twice (maybe thrice) daily until I get over this mound I've met. My journey is for flat plains only and these mountains must be removed before I am too weak to climb.

"I assure you that there are a multitude of accidents that come with mincing potions ingredients, Headmaster."

He is staring at my left arm, which is cloaked in black fabric. Beneath the sleeve of my robe, is a blood-stained white bandage. Under this bandage is the Dark Mark. 

"My dear boy," he clucked his tongue, his dim blue eyes staring at me sadly. "You don't possibly expect me to believe that the act of mincing ingredients resulted in two precise intersecting wounds over your mark, do you?"

"I expect you to trust me, Albus," I replied.

"You expect me to trust in your lies?"

Of course I do, Albus. If my lies were not trusted, I would be a worthless spy.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I find that my distribution of detentions is self-defeating. I dish them out and where does it get me? - In a classroom with a half-witted Gryffindor for an additional (and painful) hour. WHY? WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF?

"Sir, the last ingredients of this cauldron seem to have been rotting at the bottom for months. I can't seem to get it clean…" 

"Well, Mr. Creevey, I suppose you'll just have to scrub harder then…won't you?"

"Sir, I don't think you understand how completely impossible-"

"I said scrub harder, Creevey! 10 points from Gryffindor for your insolence."

Insolence is what caused Creevey to be assigned this detention…and all of the detentions he was to serve for the rest of school year. Who would of thought that this loyal Harry Potter supporter; this boisterous child with a passion for photography; this mindless GRYFFINDOR – had an evil streak? Not only did he like to take pictures, and develop them, but he also liked to RESTORE them. 

I, of course, demanded nothing less than expulsion for the degradation of a respected teacher.

Minerva McGonagall told me to define 'respected'.

Colin Creevey was on disciplinary probation for the rest of the school year – detention every night, no Hogsmeade visits, no extracurricular activities. One little slip up, and the boy would be gone, Albus promised me. I wanted to tell the old fool that promises could not erase the humiliation of having an obscene adolescent picture of yourself enlarged and tacked to a wall. Promises could not erase the cheers of every non-Slytherin house. Promises could not erase the fact that this boy, the mannequin of Gryffindors everywhere, was the essence of the bane of my existence.

"Look, Sir, I'm really sorry-"

"Enough of your fabricated apologies, Creevey. I don't want to hear them. I thought I told you to SCRUB damn it."

"Professor?" Harry stuck his head in the door. I raised an eyebrow in his direction and nodded, signaling for him to continue. Seeing Creevey, Harry looked to his feet and asked, "I was wondering what I got on that last essay-"

"You can find out with the rest of the class on Wednesday, Mr. Potter," I said automatically, rising from my chair. "But if your simple mind is in need of some of the finer points of the present assignment, follow me." I rose from my chair, glared at Creevey, and told the little bugger to scrub until his fingers bled. 

Harry, after being led into my office, said, "You're going insanely easy on him. Only making him scrub cauldrons-"

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. I charmed that cauldron to stay dirty. The insipid little bastard's not going to have the strength to take a simple snapshot once I'm through with him."

Harry laughed. My mouth threatened a smile.

"But he's my biggest fan!"

"Yes, well…your biggest fan is the biggest pain in my arse."

"You know, Hermione still thinks you're the hottest piece of meat on the market."

I snorted. "Well, then, Ms. Granger will have to realize that I am not 'on the market' as you so crudely put it. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell me these things, as they are most jarring." Harry sat down on the edge of my desk. "For Merlin's sake, there's a chair right in front of you, you impertinent child. Why must you insist on sitting on things that are not made for sitting?"

"Desks should be chairs. Sitting is better than working," he replied matter-of-factly. I scowled so fiercely that he retreated to the chair and looked down at his lap, appropriately shamefaced.

"Now, what did you want to talk about that couldn't wait until after Creevey's detention?" I was growing impatient.

"I actually just wanted to make sure you weren't killing him," the boy shrugged. "You know, Voldemort has Death Eaters. I think I need loyal supporters, too."

I snorted yet again. "How delightfully arrogant of you."

Harry quirked a smile. "Better than being my usual self-depreciating self."

I absently rubbed my arm. The wounds were healing over and beginning to itch. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

"I thought you'd be proud."

"Pride doesn't come easily, child."

A hurt expression fleeted across his boyish face. "Neither does trust."

If I were in a more pleasant mood, I might have taken it back. I might have comforted him, told him how proud I was of him, how much I simply adored him. 

"I concur," I said instead, taking a seat on top of my desk.

We stared at eachother for a long, tense moment. His green eyes were on fire, boring a searing hot flame into my retinas; his mouth was turned down in an angry frown; and his fingers were pinching something awful into his leg.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, his knuckles turning white. He had begun to grind his teeth in self-inflicted pain.

I gracefully eased myself down and pried his hand from his thigh. "Nothing, Harry. What's wrong with _you_?"

"Nothing," he snapped, hastily recoiling his hand from my grasp. "I was just fine until I came here." He stared at me hard, waiting to see guilt. I didn't give. "To see you," he added. 

"Maybe you shouldn't have," I said smoothly. "It seems to have upset you."

He jumped up from his chair. "You never fucking admit the truth, Professor. You talk in circles and make it believable – give and retract and nobody ever notices that you're a walking contradiction. You're a bloody lie on legs! They say I need stability and you took me in, but what ARE you? Who ARE you? Nobody even KNOWS. One minute it's this, the next it's that. Do you despise the world, Professor? Because sometimes you act like you love it. Do you love me, Professor? Because right now it seems like nothing's changed. Where do your bloody lies END?"

I smirked. "There's a thin line between the truth and fairytales, Mr. Potter, and nobody can distinguish the two but yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, shaking in rage.

"It means, believe what you want to believe because the truth is asinine." I put a hand on his trembling shoulder and spoke more gently. "Do you trust me?"

"No," he said. "The truth is asinine, therefore any amount of faith I have in you is insubstantial." I attempted to touch his cheek but he swatted my hand away. "Don't fucking touch me."

I smirked. "Good job, child. You shouldn't trust me. You should have never trusted me."

He walked towards the door, but turned rather suddenly and spoke in a calmer voice, "You're lying again, Professor." He then left, slamming the door purposefully behind him.

I raised my sleeve and undressed my wound to see that the cuts had reopened.

_Healing over_, I huffed. Even something so irritating as an itch is a lie when it comes to Severus Snape.


End file.
